right to the point.
“Pardon me, Father, but please tell me what you saw in that house that has alarmed you so.” Morningstar at once pulled back, then took a breath and seemed to relax. Before speaking, he looked around to see if anyone else was close enough to hear.
“You a newspaper man, sir?” His voice was low and gentle.
“Yes, Father Morningstar. Trumbo’s my name-I have interviewed you in the past if you will recall, regarding the sharp increase in cholera deaths last year. But you have my word that I will keep whatever it is you tell me today in the strictest confidence if you so wish.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute, sonny,” the preacher said with a thin smile.
“I understand, Father.” Trumbo’s tone softened. “It’s true that I came here for a story, but after what I’ve seen-I just want to help.”
Morningstar’s demeanor softened in kind.
“You seem like a nice boy,” he said. “Do yourself a favor and stay out of that house. Those doctors can’t help that young ’un. Neither can I. There’s something wild in there. Something dangerous to the souls of men. Something absent of God-or too full of God. Stay away from that place, Mister Reporter. There’s no story in there. Only death.” He turned to leave.
“If you are a man of God, sir-”
Morningstar stopped but did not turn to meet the reporter’s eyes.
“If you are a man of God-how can you leave that young child’s soul in danger, as you say?”
Morningstar’s eyes then met Trumbo’s-and there was ice in the connection. “That boy’s soul is lost, sonny. This is God’s business now.”
“But isn’t
The preacher stepped close-allowing Trumbo’s full appreciation of his larger stature. His voice remained low and even:
“Sonny, I hear the voice of God every day of my life. Sometimes every minute of every day. Sometimes I wish the Good Lord would shut the hell up and leave me alone. But I answer his call, and I do his bidding. It is my lot.”
An awkward pause balanced in midair between the two. After a few moments he continued:
“Sonny, listen to me. When I was in that place I did indeed hear the voice of Jesus Our Savior. Would you like to know what He said?”
Incredulous, Trumbo answered, “I would indeed.”
“The Good Lord said, ‘Get the fuck out of this house. Now.’ Print that in your damn paper.” He left without another word.
Finding himself unable to follow Father Morningstar’s sensible example, Trumbo walked back to the house on shaking legs-and entered on an appalling scene.
The boy was sitting up in his crib, pulling leeches from himself and throwing them in the direction of the doctor. Shielding his face with one hand while hurriedly packing his medical equipment with the other, the doctor paused only to stomp a stray leech before running out the door. The mother was screaming.
The child then vaulted over the side of his crib and did what appeared to be a dance before stopping suddenly to face Trumbo. Said what sounded like:
“Lakjufa doir estay?”
Trumbo turned to the mother-“Madame, do you speak English?”
“Yes. Some.” Her voice was shaken, but she made an attempt to calm herself for the benefit of her uninvited guest.
Trumbo spoke slowly and precisely: “Is your son speaking in a language that you know?”
“It is not Sicilian if that is what you ask.”
“How long has he been speaking?”
“He only one. Before today, he no speak.”
“Not at all?”
Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she replied:
“Before today he no walk either. Only crawl. Now he run. Dance.”
The pair looked back at the boy, who’d begun clucking like a rooster. Trumbo instinctively backed away from him-to his horror, he noted the child’s mother had done the same.
The child interrupted his performance to take another step towards the reporter.
“Lakjufa doir estay?” His voice was high in timber, but still far too deep for a child his age.
“I…don’t understand.”
“
“I’m sorry,” he said finally.
The child rolled his eyes and let out a final squawk before quickly extracting a piece of charcoal from the stove’s belly with pink little fingers. Dropping to all fours, he rapidly scratched seemingly random letters and numbers to the floor with the coal:
The boy then leapt into the air and back over the rail of the crib, landing in a fetal position with a soft thud, immediately falling into a deep sleep. Mutually dumbfounded, the two could only stare at the child’s still form for several moments, not knowing what to expect next.
Trumbo took pencil and paper from his bag to write down, for the record, the nonsense message the child had so frantically scribbled on the floor.
After several moments of no new horrors, Anabella Carolla dissolved into a fresh wave of tears. Not knowing what else to do, Trumbo cautiously placed his arms around her. She did not resist; in fact, she hardly seemed to notice he was there.
“Ma’am,” Trumbo offered uncertainly, “I will summon another doctor…”
“No, no, no. It no use. This is third doctor. And fourth priest. Catholic priests no longer come. Is why this one a negro. He my baby’s last hope. And he go too.”
“Listen. I will be back. And I will bring help. Trust me, dear, I will be back.”
“You will not be back. Is all right. Understand.”
“No. I will be back. I swear it.” Trumbo turned towards the door and added, “My name is Marshall Trumbo, reporter for
She smiled weakly, “You are good man, Marshall Trumbo, reporter for
“I know who you are, dear. Stay with your son and don’t lose hope.”
He left her, strange thoughts whirring in his head on the long walk home. Trumbo had gone to the Carolla house that morning in search of redemption, but the current workings of his mind seemed only to spell damnation.
He’d heard strange stories from reliable sources about an abortion doctor in the red-light
