Read Online The Turtle Warrior by Mary Relindes Ellis - Free Book Online Page A

colorless as though she had not slept. She propped her elbows up on the table and rested her face in her hands.
    “What does he write when he writes to you?” she repeated.
    “Jus’ letters,” Bill mumbled. He swallowed another spoonful of his oatmeal.
    His mother sighed heavily. “I know something isn’t right. But he always says he’s fine when he writes to me. And he sends so much money.”
    Bill almost stopped his spoon in midair but caught himself and neatly guided it into his mouth. He felt the blanket of his mother’s gaze cover him.
    “Billy. Can I read the letters he sends to you? I promise I won’t say anything.”
    Bill quietly placed his spoon on the table. He was hoping she wouldn’t ask that. He looked up and silently scrutinized his mother’s face. He watched for any sign, a false smile, or too many tears, or even one tear, that might signal her betrayal, signal her old anger that would pull him across the kitchen by his hair if he said no. There was nothing. Nothing but exhaustion so pure it rendered his mother a sagging shell, and he thought he could almost see through her to the kitchen sink.
    “I’ll give ‘em to you at lunch. But you gotta give ’em back before—”
    But he didn’t have to finish because his mother knew. She nodded, reaching out slowly to touch her small son’s teak-colored hair. Bill’s mouth fell open as he watched her arm extend itself toward him, toward his quivering face, and all he could see and feel was a thin finger of sunlight gently touch his head.

    Pray for me.
    He always thought of the Sacred Heart Church as a large brick cave. Except that it was dry, not damp, and the cavernous ceiling was covered with frescoes of trumpeting angels and the ascension of the Virgin Mary into heaven, painted by the German immigrant artists who first settled Olina. It was surprisingly empty even for a Saturday afternoon. He tagged after his mother in the enormous hush of the empty church, trying to keep his bulky winter boots from thumping. There were two votive light stands on either side of the church, placed before the steps to the altar. Four rows of twelve short white candles, most of them unlit, filled the ornate wrought-iron stands. Each stand had a small iron box with a slit in it for dimes. A dime to light one candle, one lit candle to pray for a beloved’s soul, a piece of fire to keep the prayer alive.
    As if by silent agreement, Bill and his mother parted ways at the top of the aisle, and she went to the votive stand on the left while Bill knelt at the one on the right. He heard the clink of her dime as she inserted it into the box. She took a long, thin taper and held it in the flame of an already lit candle until it caught fire. Then she lit her own chosen candle. Bill listened to the low hum of her voice carry through the church as she began to chant the Hail Mary and Our Father. He waited until he was sure she was engrossed in prayer before pulling out a ten-dollar bill from his jeans pocket. He folded the bill into fourths and quickly tucked it through the slit in the box.
    He glanced over at his mother. Her head was bent, and her voice, although wavery, didn’t stop. He took a taper and held it in the flame of the only lit candle at his stand. He let it burn while the words of Sister Agnes came to him: “These candles are for votive prayers. That means to pray or make a vow, usually for someone else, but you can pray for your own soul. The flame of these candles means your prayer burns eternal.”
    Eternal meant forever. He lifted his wooden taper and reached across the back row of candles. He lit one, two, three ... and finally all twelve in that row. Then, after snuffing out the taper because it burned too close to his fingers, he reached for and lit another one. He lit the second row of twelve candles, then the third row, and finally, the fourth row of eleven. He snuffed out the last taper and clasped his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of