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Is the Devil with the wolf-like eyes going to be there?
Poppy
Park Street Church, Boston.
It’s a big, blocky building with a towering spire that disappears deep into the fog. In front, the sprawling Boston Common is a carpet of snow, and behind it, the Charles River brings in an icy chill that snakes through the narrow streets.
My father parks a few blocks away, and by the time we reach the front of the church, there’s frost gathering on my eyelashes. I pull my worn jacket tight under my chin. It doesn’t feel like the right time to tell him I need a new one.
There’s a fistful of people on the stone steps, hands stuffed into pockets and eyes following early-morning runners on their way to the park.
Asking less questions means I see more. And as we approach the church, I notice two things.
One: For such an “important family,” there really aren’t many people celebrating the Quinns’ lives.
Two: The people that are here don’t look solemn. They look confused.
Scared, even.
I glance up at my father but his eyes are trained straight ahead, a hardened expression smeared across his face. It’s one I can’t read. I don’t know him well enough.
With everyone avoiding eye contact, I take the chance to look at the crowd in better detail. From body language alone, I can tell where the divides lie. A woman with dark roots and heavy bags lining the underside of her eyes clutches the hands of two boys, neither older than seven. The younger-looking one grips the hem of her peacoat, his big blue eyes as bewildered as I feel. To the left of us, a man around my father’s age, and a teenager I assumed to be his son in his shadow. As I run a cautious look over the pair, the boy locks eyes with me. Steel gray and deep-set, and there’s not a trace of fear in them.
I look away first. Like the coward I am.
The church bells above our heads chime, their echo reverberating against my rib cage.
Eight times for eight a.m., sharp.
Among the deafening noise, my father does something he’s never done before.
Grabs my hand.
“Poppy,” he says, spinning me around to face him. This time, his expression is as clear as day. Fear. It taints his emerald-green eyes, the only physical feature we share. “You keep your head down and your mouth shut, okay?” I swallow my own fear as it rises up my throat. Looking around, I can see the mom having the same hushed conversation with her children, the father hovering over his son, body language displaying a similar sentiment. Another tug on my hand. “Poppy?” my father hisses, the lines deepening on his face. “You listening to me?”
I manage a nod, and it’s enough for him to straighten up, reset his jaw, and pull me toward the opening church doors.
Inside, the silence rings louder than the bells, but there’s no relief from the biting chill. I blink, once, twice, to adjust my eyes to the room. It’s cavernous with sloped ceilings and intricate stained glass that transform the white winter sun into a kaleidoscope of colors. They wash over the simple interior, bringing the well-worn pews and beige tiles to life. The small crowd hovers in the aisle, no one wanting to be the first to take a seat. After a few electrified seconds, the teenage boy pushes past my shoulder and stomps toward the front row, both the sound and sight of his Doc Martens standing out like a sore thumb. His father mutters something under his breath beside me and then follows him. I glance at my own father for reassurance. As always, it doesn’t come. I decide to take matters into my own hands, and with my legs like jelly, I make my way to the pew third from the front—not directly in the line of fire, yet not too obviously trying to hide at the back—and slide onto the smooth bench.
The set-up at the front of the church only adds fire to my confusion. Only one simple coffin sits on the raised sanctuary. There’s a new question forcing its way up my throat.I thought three of the Quinns were dead?But before I can lean toward my father’s ear and ask, the church doors fly open behind us, slamming against the hinges with a crashing echo.
There’s a collective wince, the tide of everyone rising to their feet forces me to stand too, and it’s instinctive to squeeze my eyes shut.
What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you.
The chant swarming around my head is so familiar it’s almost melodic. Etched in my brain from years of forcing myself not to be curious.
But closing my eyes only sharpens my other senses.
I can hear the heavy footsteps growing louder.
I can smell the fresh wave of crisp, winter air they’ve brought in from the street.
I can feel the tension brewing among the small crowd, reaching almost unbearable heights.
When the footsteps come to an abrupt stop, my father nudges his elbow against mine.
And when I look up, there’s no spark of recognition or creeping unease that trickles over me.
