“Your tone of voice, Agnes Mary,” Uncle Collin said. “I only did for you what I would’ve done for any of the boys and girls at St. Patrick’s.”
Agnes’s mind came to a halt. Something about the way he said boys and girls jogged a memory, a subtle reminder of something she’d long ago struggled to put into thoughts but hadn’t had the vocabulary to do. Whatever it might be, did she want to open that door and descend into the chasm? She saw Uncle Collin’s fat hand pawing at the gold moldings on the table’s corner.
“I have a few questions for you, Uncle Collin. I used to wonder why the children were so afraid, why the girls would cower when you entered a room. The boys would refer to your edicts as ‘doing Father Doherty’s favors’ and became silent as mice when you walked by.”
Uncle Collin’s face blanched, but when he spoke, it turned beet red. “Stop this now, Agnes. You’re tipsy from all that wine. You don’t know yourself.”
Agnes could restrain herself no longer. “Anthony Balfiglio let it slip one day, but I didn’t understand. Something about shivers going up and down his spine when he passed your office. Why did do to terrify them so, Uncle Collin?”
“I did nothing but teach them ethics and morals,” he shouted.
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