Samuel nodded his head, calm and relieved.
“Get his papers,” she told Father Murphy, walking to a small suitcase, removing a fresh pair of blue jeans. “Go to the bathroom and put these on,” she continued. “And hurry up, we’ll be landing soon.” Samuel scurried off to the bathroom. Once inside, his shaking stopped. He looked down at the piss-stained trousers, smiled, then looked in the mirror. The two cans of orange soda showed up just in time, a crowning touch to his begging. He changed quickly, took several deep breaths and braced himself. He exited the bathroom with a false submissive gratefulness on his face.
Just one chance. Just one.
15
S amuel fidgeted in his aisle seat, wishing he were next to a window as the plane angled downward. Sister Bravo and the two priests broke off their whisper filled conversation they were holding on the far side of the cabin and buckled up in their seats. Samuel took a couple of deep, imperceptible breathes to relax, trying not to look too calm. He scanned the cabin. Father Sin’s glare bored a hole right through Samuel’s forehead. It made him uncomfortable, and he avoided direct eye contact.
Father Murphy stared out of the window, humming a choppy tune Samuel didn’t recognize, and Sister Bravo thumbed through a thick manila folder, reading a file, her dark silky hair back up in her habit.
Samuel heard the plane’s landing gear unfold and lock into place. He remembered a similar sound on the much larger jets he flew in when he went on trips with his parents. Joyous moments that meant Disneyland or Six Flags were just around the corner, or that a long, boring flight to some place his mother thought would be educational had just started, or mercifully come to an end. This time though, a large stone, the size of a pit from a just eaten peach, was imbedded in the bottom of his stomach like a small boulder.
Twenty minutes later, the plane touched down, and not long after, glided to a stop. Everybody unbuckled and stood. Samuel stayed in front of his seat and watched the others scramble around the cabin, gathering their things in organized chaos. Sister Bravo shoved a purple backpack in Samuel’s face.
“It’s filled with extra clothing,” she told him. “You need to know in case customs check. Here’s your passport.” Samuel opened it, and immediately recognized the photo he took the year before at St. Paul Elementary, during the annual picture day held at most schools. He remembered that his mother chose Package A, which provided enough wallet photos for half of Chicago. Sister Bravo took back the passport.
“Your name is Samuel Peterson,” she told him. Samuel repeated the name. “You’re an orphan,” she continued. “That’s all you need to know.
Fathers Sin and Murphy will walk you inside and answer any other questions. I’ll be along later.” She handed the passport to Father Sin and abruptly disappeared through the door that led to the front of the plane.
Samuel looked over at Father Sin.
“Let’s go,” the priest grumbled. “And remember your place.” Father Sin’s face softened as much as Samuel imagined it probably could, and he extended his massive hand to the ten year old, whose tiny fingers disappeared in the giant’s grip. They walked to the far rear of the plane, Father Murphy right behind them. The back door opened, and a short flight of stairs rolled into place. Father Sin led the way down into a large airplane hanger, where they were greeted by two men in matching dark-brown shirts and pants, with patches of a jet similar to the one they flew in on pasted on the right side of their chests, with the words Ciampino Aero Jet above the patch.
Fathers Sin and Murphy kissed the men on both sides of their cheeks and greeted them in a language Samuel still couldn’t place. Samuel looked back at the plane for any sign of Sister Bravo, who was nowhere in sight. He did notice a large symbol on the tail of the plane. A gold crown with two majestic keys crossed under it, all laid on top of a deep orange shield. Samuel recalled seeing the symbol before at church in Father Tolbert’s office, but couldn’t remember what it meant.
Fathers Sin and Murphy and the two airport workers laughed and talked in a language Samuel now guessed to be Italian or French. They ended the brief conversation, and the airport workers moved the stairs from the back door to the front, as a shiny black Mercedes Benz eased inside the hanger and stopped in front of them. The driver popped the trunk, and the two airport workers loaded the bags. Father Murphy sat up front with the driver. Samuel slid in back with Father Sin. He made a mental note of the time from a digital clock with bright green numbers on the dashboard… 7:00 p.m. The driver pulled out of the hanger, past a group of planes similar to the one they flew in on, minus the symbol on the tail Samuel still couldn’t place.
Outside, the sun had all but vanished, leaving the airport bathed in the light dust of evening, that moment between sunset and night. The airport was much smaller than Chicago O’Hare, or any of the airports Samuel remembered. He spotted several planes with names he recognized; American Airlines, United, Continental, the sight of which made him long for home even more.
The car abruptly stopped at a small terminal and Samuel heard the trunk pop. Father Murphy and the driver gathered the bags, while Father Sin and Samuel stood by the car. The evening air was crisp, but not too cold, and Samuel welcomed it as it lightly caressed his face.
“Remember,” Father Sin hissed, “I’ll do the talking.” Samuel nodded his consent and followed the priest inside the terminal, which looked more like the lobby of his father’s country club than an airport terminal. Thick tan carpet cushioned their feet, and artwork like he’d seen during field trips to the Chicago Art Museum lined the walls. An emotionless uniformed man stood behind a wooden counter, another waited at a table just a few feet away. A sign hung over each station that read Customs. Another sign over the counter read Welcome to Italy.
Father Sin led the way to the front counter, greeted the customs agent, and handed over three passports. Father Murphy stood next to him with the bags. The agent eyed them carefully, thumbed through the passports, occasionally looking up to scan the three of them. The agent said something to Father Sin, who managed to somehow transform himself into a model of patience and piety, an image that made him even more frightening. He smiled, pointed to Samuel, and said something to the agent that caused him to respond, “I see, I see,” in a thick, Italian accent. The agent smiled at Samuel, handed the passports back to Father Sin, and pointed them in the direction of the customs agent waiting a few feet away.
“Anything to declare?” asked the customs agent, in much better English.
“No, nothing,” answered Father Sin, with a broad smile.
Father Murphy placed their bags on the table.
“No, Father, that won’t be necessary,” the agent told him, waving them through.
“Grazie, grazie,” gushed Father Sin, grabbing Samuel’s hand, pulling him toward the exit.
Samuel considered making his stand right there at customs, but feared he might not be able to get the agent to understand. He had to wait until he had a greater advantage.
Outside, the black Mercedes was waiting at the curb. Father Murphy tossed the bags in the trunk and resumed his seat up front with the driver.
Father Sin pushed Samuel in the back seat and the car sped away. The Mercedes pulled out of the airport area past a sign that read Roma Ciampino Airport onto Via Appia Nuova Road. Samuel watched rural Italy pass by, most of it green flat land and rolling hills. The longer Samuel watched unfamiliar landmarks zip by, he realized just how far he was from home, and the sickness in his stomach bubbled. You’ll never see your mother and father ever again, he heard Sister Bravo’s voice sneer. Samuel gritted his teeth. No, I won’t accept that! Never!
“Sit back and relax,” Father Sin told him, with icy stillness. “It won’t take long for us to reach our destination.”