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“Glo-ry to the newborn King!”
A couple of elderly women politely applauded from
a few feet away. He bowed to them before stepping down. One lady produced
a bill, which she handed to him directly instead of dropping it into his
sardine can.
“You keep singing, son,” Leyland overheard her say
to him. “God may not have given you a perfect voice, but when the song
comes straight from the heart, it’s more than beautiful.”
Harold thanked her as he took the bill and placed
it in the can.
Leyland started to confront the child but thought
better of it. His real concern was for the boy’s wellbeing.
I’ll follow him instead,
he decided.
Maybe I can find out where he lives. When I do, I’ll notify the
authorities and let them know, and let them take it from there.
He was careful to remain out of sight.
Sometimes ducking inside a doorway when Harold glanced his way. Most of
the time keeping others in front of him as a shield.
They must have covered about three blocks. All the
while the kid continued on straight as an arrow, staying on the same road,
even when crossing at the lights. Which was why he was surprised when the
child suddenly turned inside a gated entrance. Leyland halted and looked
up to see the carved stone façade of St. Bridget’s Church.
He caught a glimpse of white before one of the
tall front doors closed. Leyland smiled to himself. It was good to know
the kid was finally seeking a little shelter from the cold.
He remained outside the gate as he waited for the
boy to exit. But after fifteen minutes without any sign of the kid,
Leyland decided to go in himself. Maybe the boy was practicing for a
Christmas pageant or something. Regardless, he figured he could wait just
as easily from a pew in the back where it was decidedly warmer than
standing out in the cold and snow.
The first thing he noticed when he opened the door
was the lack of sound. Nope. No choir rehearsal today,
he noted to himself.
Unless it’s
already over and everyone’s left. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t I have
seen people coming out?
Despite the total absence of sound, the place
didn’t feel menacing. Just the opposite. The huge old cathedral gave
Leyland a sense of calm. A welcoming sereness.
A trail of wet, child-size footprints led past a
font of holy water and into the next alcove. There, in front of several
rows of votive candles, some of which were lit, sat the sardine can with
its collection of coins, including the five-dollar bill he’d seen the old
woman give the boy.
“Can I help you?” a warm voice gently inquired.
Still, Leyland jerked in surprise when he turned around to see the man
standing in the doorway leading into the nave.
“There was a young boy dressed as an angel who
came in here a few minutes ago.” Seeing the man’s expression grow
concerned, he tried to explain. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I and a
friend of mine have seen him standing out in the cold singing for change,
and we’re worried about him. He doesn’t have a coat, and he’s barefoot. I
spotted him out in front of a store over on Palfrey and I thought I’d try
to follow him to see where he lives. The authorities need to know about
him. See if they can’t find out why his parents are allowing him or making
him go out in this weather without anything to keep him warm.”
That look didn’t leave the priest’s face, and
Leyland couldn’t blame him. The guy didn’t know if he was a predator or
honestly trying to help. “You’re certain he came in here?”
“Yes.” Leyland pointed to the sardine can. “That’s
the can he always carries with him. I thought he was giving the money to
his folks, but it seems he’s giving some of it to the church.”
The priest walked over to look for himself, and
his expression softened. “So it’s a boy child leaving that for us?”
Leyland gave the man a raised eyebrow. “He’s been
here before?”
“Oh, yes. Several times, but only during the
Christmas holidays. In fact, we can almost set our calendars by him. He
starts leaving his…earnings, I guess you could call it, on the eve of
Advent, and the last time he, or rather, the money appears, is on
Christmas Eve.” The priest snorted softly. “I see this year he’s using a
sardine can. Last year it was a Spam can.”
“I don’t understand,” Leyland confessed.
Picking up the can, the man shook the meager
contents and single bill into one hand before setting the container back
on the votive table where it had been placed. “Come with me,” the priest
invited, gesturing for Leyland to follow him.
The man led him behind the back row of pews and up
the aisle on the left side of the building. As they walked, the priest
explained. “By the way, I’m Father Peter. And you are?”
“Leyland Scott.”
The man nodded. “I take it you’re not Catholic.”
“Nope. Raised Episcopalian, though.”
Father Peter cast him a knowing eye. “We’ll
forgive you for that,” he jested. “I also take it it’s been some time
since you were inside a house of worship.”
“You’re two for two, Father.” Leyland lightly
chuckled.
They reached a juncture where a narrow hallway led
farther into the rear of the church. Instead of going that way, the priest
stopped in front of a small wooden box adhered to the wall. Lifting the
lid, he dropped the coins and bill inside. “Let’s go to my office,” the
man invited.
More curious than ever, Leyland followed him
through the door located at the end of the hall behind the box. The office
was small but tidy. It contained only a desk and a single chair, a filing
cabinet, and a short lectern where a large Bible lay open. The priest
pointed to the chair. “Have a seat,” he offered and went to sit behind his
desk.
Leyland sighed loudly as he sat. He didn’t realize
how long he’d been walking until his bottom met the cushion. Stretching
out his legs felt good.
Clasping his hands and placing them on the desk
mat in front of him, Father Peter leaned forward. “You said it’s a boy
angel who’s leaving the sardine can of loose change in the vestibule?”
“He’s dressed like an angel, with the fake wings
and all, but it’s not enough to keep him warm in this weather,” Leyland
explained. “And he’s barefoot, on top of that.”
“What does he look like?” the Father inquired.
“Oh, I’m guessing Harold’s about ten years old. So
high.” Leyland held a hand parallel to the floor. “He’s got light brown
hair that looks like it’s never seen a comb and green-gold eyes.” He
chuckled. “You should hear him. Kid can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but
he’s so enthusiastic. I mean, he comes across so happy when he’s belting
out a tune, it’s infectious.” He noticed how the priest studied him, and
he wondered what was going on inside the guy’s head.
“What kind of music does he sing? Christmas songs,
I assume?” Father Peter asked next.
“Yeah.” Leyland nodded. “The religious ones. Not
the secular ones like ‘Jingle Bells’
or ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town.’
Not those kind.”
“And you say his name is Harold?”
“Don’t know for sure. That’s what we call him
because his favorite tune seems to be ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’”
Leyland cocked his head. “What I can’t figure out is why he’s leaving the
money he’s earned here, instead of giving it to his parents?”
The priest smiled at the question. Opening his top
side drawer, he withdrew a piece of paper and held it out to Leyland, who
took it. On the piece torn from a sheet of lined notebook paper were three
scrawled words:
for the por
Leyland glanced up at the man. “For the poor?”
Father Peter nodded and reached out to take back
the message. “That’s how we read it, too.”
“And he’s been doing this for how long?”
“We first noticed a can of coins appearing at that
station a few years ago. That message was also included.”
“How often does he leave the can? Maybe he takes
some of it back home,” Leyland suggested.
“It appears three times a day, and it’s always
left by the votive station, but there seems to be no set timetable. All we
know is the last one always appears before dark, and every time the money
is in a can. One year it was a discarded pork and beans can. Another year
it was a chicken noodle soup can. And always just a few coins.” The man
shrugged slightly. “Sometimes there’s a bill or two. We put the money in
the coffers, and come morning the can is gone.”
“But you’ve never seen Harold personally?” Leyland
clarified.
The man shook his head. “This is the first time
we’ve learned anything about our benefactor. Over at the rectory, we refer
to him as our Canning Benefactor.”
Leyland waved an arm toward the ceiling. “What
about cameras?”
Father Peter’s smile thinned slightly. “This is a
house of God, Mr. Scott. We trust Him to watch over us.”
Leyland felt slightly chagrined by the remark, but
he refused to let it get to him.
The smile returned to its prior warmth. “Thank you
for finally filling in the pieces of the puzzle we’d been missing. Will
you do us a favor? In return for a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll keep our eyes open for Harold and let you
know if we discover anything if you’ll do the same for us. Now that we
know who we’re dealing with, we’d like to find out who his parents are,
too, and see if there’s some way we can get the boy a coat and a pair of
shoes. Do you think if we left the items at the front where he leaves the
can, that he’ll take them?”
Leyland shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to try. At
least we’ll know you tried.”
“Excellent.” The priest got to his feet and held
out his hand to shake Leyland’s. “Thank you again for your help, Mr.
Scott.”
“I’m glad I came in,” he admitted with a chuckle.
The priest led him back to the nave. “When you do
find out something, just call the church office and leave word. And leave
your phone number with the secretary so we can contact you.”
“I will.” Giving the man a nod, he turned and
returned to the front entrance. On his way out, he happened to glance over
at the stand of votive candles.
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