A Key To Love

A KEY TO LOVE

PROLOGUE

MAY 1958

 Suddenly, two boys bolted from the front, side door of the church as the smoke surged from the choir loft floor while swirling and twisting, thicker and thicker.

    Now, into the steeple it rose, escaping out through the louvers, threatening to still the reverberation of the bell which had summoned all from far and wide since the 1860's.

    Hiding behind the tombstones as they ran through the adjacent graveyard, they looked from side to side hoping no one would see them, especially the inhabitants of the convent at the graveyard's edge.

    They darted from behind the massive marble monuments, hustling toward Green Street.

    Fleeing over the bridge that arched the train tracks, they came down the hill on the other side, sliding down the grassy knoll on their backsides, finally reaching the ground. After following the tracks for about a mile, running as fast as their legs could carry them, they stopped beneath an overpass and looked around to be sure that no one was watching.

    Andrew, one of the youngsters, had both hands on his thighs, leaning forward as he looked back over his shoulder and into the sky.

    “Oh my God!” he panted, turning now to fully face it, covering his mouth with his hand while his eyes bugged out in a disbelieving stare. His voice hitched.

    “Look . . . Jonathon, the whole place . . . must be on fire.”

    Flames were now visible, dancing between the billows of smoke.  Up and up it rose, choking off the vision of the immense, ninety foot steeple.

    The cross on the apex, the tallest point of the Westminster skyline, was the only part they could see.  The church was obliterated by the distance with houses and trees between the boys and their parish buildings on Main Street.

    Jonathon looked undeniably surprised.  With a sneer in his voice, he said,

    “It wasn't that bad when we left and, besides, the Fire Department is just up the block.  They could've taken care of it.”

    “No, we should've gotten Father, should've told someone what was happening when we first saw the smoke,” said his brother, Andrew, in a nervous voice, choking back tears.

    “But we didn't!  So I don't want to hear a thing about it.  Got it?  Not a thing!  We'll be in reform school for sure if it leaks out.  Reform school, I tell ya'.  So nobody can know, just you and me.”

    Pleading, Andrew said,

    “Jonathon, we should go back now, tell what happened.  Monsignor will understand.  We'll ask for forgiveness and"”

    Before Andrew could finish, Jonathon grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and began to yell and swear,

    “So help me, if you tell another living soul, I'll tell everyone it was all your fault.  You being fourteen and the older brother--you should've known better.  They'll say, How could you put your little brother in harm's way like that?  After all he's only twelve.  You're the one that should be punished.  Yeah, we should send you away.  Away from your brothers and the Aunt and Uncle who raised you.  Away from . . .”

    “Okay, Okay, Jonathon, I won't tell,” Andrew's voice trembled.

    But Jonathon wasn't yet convinced that Andrew wouldn't talk.

    “Gimme your hand,” said Jonathon, “and prove to me that you won't squeal.”

    He took out his penknife and made a tiny slit in both his and his brother's finger.  Jonathon made Andrew touch his slit to his own, like he had seen the Lone Ranger and Tonto do on their television show.

    “Now, we are blood brothers,” Jonathon said.

    “But, Jonathon, we are already brothers,” Andrew said through clenched teeth, the frustration building.

    “But now, we are blood brothers and if you tell, you will be breaking a vow, Kemosabe.”

    Oblivious to the spectacle of the fire behind them, Jonathon dramatically spread his arms outward and upward and mimicked the actors he had seen, saying,

    “I now summon the gods of my tribe to watch this brother, Andrew.  If he tells our secret to anyone, let the gods be unhappy.  Let the gods put him to death in a horrible way.  Yes, if he makes the gods unhappy, let a spear pierce through his heart.”

    “Stop it, Jonathon, stop it.  You're scaring me.  Don't talk like that,” Andrew cried.

    Jonathon turned, arms still outstretched, looking up and away from Andrew like the portrayal of an Indian chief summoning a higher being.  He was biting his lip, holding back the laughter bubbling in his throat and said under his breath,

    “Andrew, you are such a wimp.”

    Sirens wailed into the midday quiet, breaking the exchange between the two brothers.

    They were coming from everywhere it seemed.  One fire engine crossed over the bridge above them, shaking its foundation.  Two others came, one marked Reese Fire Company and the other, Reisterstown.

    The boys sneaked back along the railroad tracks to get a closer look at the melee.

    Red, yellow and blue flames totally engulfed the spot they had been in minutes before and the fire catapulted about fifty feet higher into the air.

    Suddenly, to their amazement, the steeple toppled over, crashing into the main body of the gothic masterpiece.

    And then, like dominoes falling, it continued bashing the rectory.  Its copper cross, once stationed majestically atop it, was falling in the direction of the courtyard where the Monsignor usually sat at his metal table, daily, while saying his afternoon prayers.

    They heard a scream, then the sound of more destruction.

    Although they couldn't see where it landed, they gasped, turned, and ran away again.