The Redemption of Reverend McKinney

By Bonnie Frankenberger

Some wounds are hard to heal, and for Catherine Westwater, the mere sight of young Drew McKinney reopens a painful memory. As a young boy, he shrugs off her disdain for him, but when he goes off to seminary and learns the truth about her past, he is wary of her. Upon his return to Glasgow, his suspicions about her increase when he finds his only love, Mairi, has been wooed away by Westwater's alcoholic son, Jaime. When his best friend is killed, Drew is certain that Catherine is to blame.
Together with his own abilities to tell a lie from the truth and the newly emerging practice of criminalistics(early forensic gatherings)by the Glasgow Police Department, Drew sets out to see her pay for her actions. It is only then that he learns the truth about her reason for hating him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Frankenberger
• Release date: May 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476017143

Bonnie Frankenberger

Bonnie Frankenberger, a retired speech-pathologist, has been writing historical fiction for nearly 25 years. She lives with her husband in Webster, NY.

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THE REDEMPTION OF REVEREND MCKINNEY

BONNIE FRANKENBERGER

Copyright © 2012 By Bonnie Frankenberger

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This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Printed in the United States of America

*The words to Millie's song are original and cannot be used without the author's permission.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to my family for their support and encouragement while writing this novel. Their insights were invaluable in making this story come alive for the reader. A special thank you to my husband, Michael, for his editing and suggestions as the story unfolded. Also, thank you to my eldest daughter, Heidi Marcin, for her suggestions and questions that made my writing tighter. Thank you to my youngest daughter, Rebecca, who encouraged me countless times to get a book published. I hope she will be proud that I finally took the step.

A giant thank you to the Webster Writers Group, of which I have been a member for almost twenty years. These are dedicated writers and critics that I have learned tremendous lessons from. Their questions and comments only improved this novel. Paul Bagdon, a prolific published author himself, has served as our mentor and friend. He gives of his valuable time to inspire us to all be better writers. Mucho gracias, Pablo. The following names are those members of the group who have been with me over the years: Willow Kirchner, Sid O’Conner, Linda Pepe, Roz Pullara, Emily Altman, Joe Callen, Art Mauer, Blanca Mastbaum-Kane, Louise Whitney, Michael Scott, John Karp, Peter Mauer, and our newest member, Alicia Beckwith. Many of you have taken the leap and are published authors. Your encouragement has pushed me to do the same.

When a novel tugs at your brain like this one did to me, you ask yourself why. What I learned in my research is that subconsciously, I knew some of this information already and somehow incorporated those facts into the story. I learned that what I thought was true about my heritage was not as accurate as I thought. But I will always be grateful that my grandmother left me wondering about her family’s past.

This book is dedicated to my maternal grandmother, Christina B. McLean Edwards Dyer. She was a feisty little woman with quite a tragic life, but she taught me so much about survival and family. Thank you, Gram, for sending this story to me.

THE REDEMPTION OF REVEREND MCKINNEY

CHAPTER 1

1880

Andrew McKinney was an expert at spotting a dodger. He had been one himself at a very early age of five. Left to wander the streets of Glasgow after his unwed mother’s death from diphtheria, he quickly learned to turn his violet eyes upward with such pitiful sadness, that anyone with a farthing or a halfpenny to spare, would press it into his dirty little palm and pat him reassuringly on his head. On a good day, usually a payday, he could accumulate anywhere from a sixpence to a shilling. With his earnings, he could purchase a cup of tea and some day-old bread. Sometimes, a grocer might give him a potato or a blackened banana. He always worked alone, and never felt sorry for himself.

Born in the Bridgegate section of Glasgow, a tenement so packed with people and disease, Drew was lucky to still be alive. After his mother’s body was taken away from their one room flat, he secretly stayed there on his own for nearly one month. When the landlord found him out, he was tossed to the curb to fend for himself

While other children were in school, he was learning the way of life from those adults around him. Pickpockets amused him with their deft skills, but they usually worked in pairs, and he didn’t want a partner. Two friends of his, Bill Calder and Bobby Dalgetty, were young men working the streets dipping into the pockets of any unsuspecting middle class man. While Bobby pretended to bump into such a gentleman, Bill would come up behind the pair as Bobby was dusting the man off, and rob him of a watch or a money clip.

Ya’d do well ta learn from us, Bill told Drew one night as they stood around a trash bin fire trying to stay warm.

Nae, ‘tis not my style, the young boy dismissed.

Can’t rely on them sad, soft eyes forever, Drew. Once the newness has worn from yer face, ya’ll come lookin’ fer us.

Maybe, Drew shrugged."

For a short while, he tried his hand at stealing silk handkerchiefs from men and women alike. Often the silk piece would be concealed in the cuff of a coat or shirt. Drew would pretend to stumble next to his victim, then right himself by tugging on the innocent’s arm. And as quick as you like, the handkerchief would disappear from the sleeve and reappear in Drew’s hand. On the few occasions he was caught red handed, he would look up at the person with such humility and pass the silk back to them saying, I am sorry. Ya musta dropped this.

He found sisterly comfort from the local prostitutes. The working girls were all too willing to share their meals or a penny with him, if he would bring customers to them. And they prized the silks he had to sell, too. He always made a decent amount from such a sale.

Whatever his method of making his way along the streets day after day, he also learned to avoid the constables on their beats so he wasn’t carted off to some home for orphans. An orphanage was not a place of refuge, but a place of torment and torture, and he vowed he would never get caught.

But luckily for him, this life was short lived for Andrew. At the age of ten, he sought shelter in the basement of a church on a bitterly cold night, and was discovered by the minister as dawn neared.

Come ya now, lad, dunnot be afraid, the redheaded clergyman beckoned. I’ve got some hot tea an’ warm, buttery biscuits ta share with ya.

Nae, I’ll be on my way. I got no business with the likes o’ ya.

Ya dunnot, eh? An’ what might my business be?

You want ta school me in the ways o’ Jasus, that’s what.

The middle-aged minister smiled. Ah, so ya’ve heard o’ ‘im, then?

Aye, I have. But he’s not done right by me, so I’ll be goin’.

Do ya have a name, lad?

It’s Drew. Andrew McKinney.

Well, Mr. McKinney, I am Alan McLean, pastor o’ this particular church. I’m glad ta make yer acquaintance. Come share breakfast with me an’ I’ll promise not ta talk o’ the Lord or turn ya inta the authorities.

Honest?

The Revered Mr. McLean held up his hand. As God is my witness, I swear it.

Drew nodded. All right, then.

Reverend McLean led him into the large kitchen at the back of the basement. If Mrs. Richardson, my housekeeper, were here taday, she’d ha’ cooked ya up a stack o’ cakes, several bangers, an’ maybe even some eggs. But it’s her day off an’ I usually just cook up some oatmeal. Would ya like a bowl o’ it?

No, sir. Just the tea an’ biscuits, if ya please.

Nodding, the minister understood. Just as we agreed then. He tied a white apron around his pudgy middle, slid the sleeves of his natty gray sweater up to his elbows, and then set to work lighting the oven. As he placed some already baked biscuits on a metal tray, he asked, Ya like sugar in yer tea?

No, thank ya.

Well, one cannot say ya aren’t a polite lad, Drew.

Yes, sir.

Ya kin wash up there at the sink. Might wanna wipe yer face, too. There’s a bit o’ soot on it.

Drew slowly moved toward the faucet and wet his hands and face. Picking up a sliver of soap, he stroked it over his face and hands and then rinsed the suds away.

Mr. McLean placed a towel down on the counter for him. Ah, that’s much better, the reverend said. Pull up a chair.

Drew dragged a metal chair to the table and sat down while Mr. McLean pulled the biscuits from the oven. He poured the tea into flowered china cups and placed them on their matching saucers. Then he placed a wedge of butter and a pot of honey on the table.

Help yerself, he said.

Do ya not say somethin’ first?

A grace, ya mean?

Drew nodded.

I’ll say mine silently so’s as not ta disturb ya.

The young boy shrugged. Ya can say it out loud, if ya like.

All right then. Lord, thank ya fer this meager breakfast that shall sustain my young friend, Drew today an’ me. An’ watch o’er him on his way. Amen.

Amen, Drew mouthed.

Are ya an orphan, then?

No, he lied.

A runaway?

He shook his head.

I was an orphan.

The boy stared at his plate.

’Tis not a pretty life, I know. I heard such stories in the orphange that I prayed never ta have anyone want me as their son. An’, when I was old enough, an’ smart enough, I thought, I left on my own. Ended up on the streets, like ya have. Was goin’ down a bad road, too…

I hafta be off, Drew abruptly announced and stood up, the metal legs of his chair scraping across the wooden floor.

Mr. McLean smiled. Would ya like ta take the biscuits with ya?

No, sir.

Were they that bad?

They’re yers.

An’ because o’ that, I can offer them ta ya.

I’ve got nuthin’ ta carry ‘em in.

Grabbing a linen napkin, Mr. McLean wrapped the remaining biscuits in it and handed the bundle to Drew. If I had some way ta wrap the tea, I’d send it on with ya, too.

Tentatively, the boy took the package of biscuits and slid it inside his shirt.

Good thinkin’, Mr. McLean said, they’ll keep ya warm on this chilly morn.

Drew looked around for the exit.

This way, laddie, Mr. McLean said.

He walked the boy back through the basement toward the door he stole through earlier. Now, Drew, I want ya ta feel free ta come ‘round agin, especially when it’s cold or yer hungry. There’ll be no questions asked an’ no obligations wanted. I know what yer feelin’. I jus’ wanta be a friend. That’s all.

Thank ya, sir.

An’ thank ya, Drew, fer sharin’ breakfast with me.

The boy pulled his dirty woolen cap over his long brown curls and slipped out the door and out of sight of Mr. McLean. Silently, the reverend prayed that Drew would find a better life, as he had.

***

It was nearly six months later when Drew showed up at the back of the church.

Here, boy, what is it ya want? Mr. Montgomery, the sexton asked.

Panting hard, Drew choked out, I’m lookin’ fer the Rev.

Mr. McLean, ya mean?

Aye.

He’d be in the Rectory.

Drew frowned.

The house next door, the man pointed.

Aye, thank ya.

The boy ran down the steps of the church, stealing a glance to the left and right before heading for the rectory. He rapped fast and hard on the wooden door. A middle-aged woman in a blue housedress answered and asked gruffly, What is it ya want?

I’m here ta see the Rev, I mean, Mr. McLean.

Is he expectin’ ya?

Drew shrugged.

Wipe yer feet an’ wait here, she said, as she motioned for him to step into the front hall. She started down the hall, when she suddenly turned and called, Ya have a name?

Drew, ma’am. Uh, Andrew McKinney, I mean.

An’ Mr. McLean knows ya?

We’ve met before.

What a grand place this rectory was Drew thought as he stood in the hallway. There was a large parlor, furnished with lovely settees and overstuffed chairs to his left. To his right, an immense dining room with a table that seemed to stretch for nearly twenty feet. At the end of the hall, he saw a staircase leading to the second story. He’d never been in such a palace before.

Mrs. Richardson’s footsteps coming along the hall brought him to attention. Her voice was softer now when she said, Come, laddie, he’ll see ya now.

Taking one last look out the sidelight window, Drew’s feet flew in her direction and kept pace with her toward Mr. McLean’s office.

The reverend stood in the doorway wearing a big smile. Why, Drew, what a surprise, he said warmly. I was just thinkin’ ‘bout ya. Come in, son, an’ have a seat. Mrs. Richardson, could ya bring us some sandwiches an’ tea, please?

Certainly, sir.

Turning back to the boy, who had already sat down, he said, Ya seem outta breath, Drew. Are ya in trouble?

Clasping his hands in his lap, Drew shook his head.

Alan made his way to his chair and sat down. Folding his hands on the desktop, he asked, Then, what brings ya here taday?

Ya said I could come back.

Aye, I did. Did ya come back fer food or shelter?

Silence.

If ya are in trouble, lad, yer on hallowed ground. I can grant ya sanctuary from whatever yer trouble may be.

Still silence.

I cannot help ya, if I dunnot know what the problem is.

Tears welled up and clouded the boy’s violet eyes. I’m tired, sir.

Alan nodded. Ya need a rest.

Yes, but more.

Tell me what ya need.

Hearing the compassion in Reverend McLean’s voice, Drew spewed forth his story.

I am an orphan, sir, an’ I’ve been on my own fer nearly five years now. I’m tired. Tired o’ wonderin’ when I’ll eat next, tired o’ sleepin’ in coal bins or stables. Tired o’ runnin’ from the constables when I steal an apple or have my hand out fer a farthin’. I dunnot wanta go ta an orphange, sir. I want a better life. Can ya help me?

Reverend McLean sat back in his chair and asked, How do ya imagine yer life might improve?

I could work here, sir, fer a wage, maybe or a place ta eat an’ sleep.

I have a sexton an’ a housekeeper. How else might ya be o’ help?

I dunno, sir. I’ll do anythin’, sir, just dunnot turn me out.

Would ya go ta school?

Drew swallowed hard. Could ya not teach me here?

Alan smiled. I’m a pastor not a teacher, Drew.

’Course yer a teacher. Ya teach everyone ‘bout Jasus.

Ya want ta learn about Jasus?

Wouldn’t hurt me now, would it?

That all depends on ya, lad. He thought a moment. Tell ya what, after we eat our lunch, I want ya ta go with Mrs. Richardson. She’ll set ya up with a fine room where ya can get some sleep. I’ll take the afternoon ta think an’ pray on how I can help ya. Will ya give me that time?

Take all the time ya like, sir.

Are the constables lookin’ fer ya right at this moment, Drew?

Maybe. Maybe I got away.

Ya d’not hurt anyone?

Nae sir, I, well, I stole an apple from the street seller.

Then we need ta right that wrong. We’ll talk about that at dinner tonight. Now let’s have our lunch, he said, as Mrs. Richardson brought in a tray of sandwiches and tea.

***

Did ya ha’ a good rest, lad? Reverend McLean started at dinner.

Aye. Thank ya, sir.

Bed comfy?

Drew grinned and nodded.

I was wonderin’, are ya from this neighborhood, Drew?

Nae, sir. From several blocks over, he said, gesturing toward the south.

From the south side, eh? ‘Tis fairly dangerous there. How is it ya came ta St. Stephen’s, then?

I dunno. Musta wandered a ways off course.

Perhaps ‘twas fate that brought ya here, Alan mused.

’Twasn’t no one named fate, jus’ me.

Alan smiled. An when was it ya became an orphan?

Five, sir. My mum died when I was five.

An’ no family ta take ya in?

Drew shook his head.

An’ ya been on the streets all that time?

Aye.

Do ya know yer current age, Drew?

I’m ten, sir. Turned ten on the third o’March.

Those are some fairly broad shoulders ya have, lad. Takin’ care o’ yerself fer that long.

Easy when it’s jus’ me, Drew said with a shrug.

Aye. I gave some thought ta our discussion taday an’ I have a couple o’ questions fer ya.

Go on.

Do ya remember the man ya stole the apple from?

A store on a corner is all I remember.

In yer neighborhood or this one?

Drew pondered the question. ’Bout half way.

Would ya know the store if ya saw it?

The boy shrugged.

I ask, Drew, because we have ta right yer wrong. Pay the man fer the apple.

He nodded.

Then tomorrow mornin’ will start out lookin’ fer the place.

But…

Aye?

But what if he wants the coppers ta put a pinch on me?

Fer an apple?

Aye.

I think I can convince him not ta. Perhaps he’ll understand that ya were hungry.

Aye, sir. Thank ya, sir.

Alan ate a few bites more before asking, Do ya know, have ya been baptized, son?

Drew tensed. Me sir? Nae, I’m not worth savin’, Reverend.

Who told ya that?

No one. ‘Tis what I know.

The reason I ask, Drew, is that I think I might have a job fer ya workin’ with me in the church.

The boy shook his head. Not me.

Why?

Never been in one, never wanted ta be in one, dunnot belong there.

Alan McLean remained quiet as he finished his dinner. When the plates were cleared and Mrs. Richardson brought them tea and scones, he tried again. Would ya allow me ta walk ya through the church, Drew?

Walk me?

Well, maybe if I can take ya through the steps o’ the service an’ explain how ya can help me, ya might consider the job.

I’m not yer man, sir.

McLean smiled. Perhaps yer right. Still, I’d like ya ta think on it. Consider how yer work would pay fer yer room an’ board.

If it’s cleanin’ or errand runnin’ or any back-breakin’ work ya have, I’m up fer it.

I’ve told ya I already have a person like that.

Again, McLean let silence fall on the room.

After awhile, a small, resigned voice said, What would I hafta do?

If yer finished with dinner, let’s take a walk over ta the church an’ I’ll show ya.

Drew inhaled deeply and held the breath for a moment. Exhaling, he shrugged and said, All right.

I’m not tryin’ ta convert ya, Drew. That’s somethin’ that’ll happen if it’s meant ta be. Ya’d come ta me an’ ask fer absolution through baptism. I’ll not push ya inta anythin’, ya can be sure o’ it. Jasus only wants those who want him, not an unwillin’ soul.

All right. I guess I could give it a try.

Good, lad. Come, let’s go over now.

Drew entered the church with such trepidation that he had to remind himself to breathe. While the church was no cathedral, it was ornate and picturesque with statues, candles, and paintings. The wooden pews and pulpit glistened in the candlelight; the veneers so lacquered and waxed that not even dust would cling to them. Thick red velvet cushions covered the pew seats and there was a large chair where the Reverend sat during the service. His eyes followed the stone columns upward toward the carved capitals and then to the mural ceiling. Massive wooden corbels crossed above the nave, supporting the slate roof.

As he turned toward the altar, Drew saw the large crucifix hanging on the wall behind it. An alabaster depiction of a thin, bearded man with a crown of thorns and a swath of cloth covering his loins hung upon the wooden cross. His face haunted Drew. So sad and pitiful. He swallowed hard thinking about first how anyone could perform such a barbaric practice on another human and second, what it must have been like for the Lord to die in such a way.

Why? he asked the reverend.

’Twas the cruelest practice o’ the day. Disease was secondary ta crucifixion in the death tolls. The powers that be decreed such a cruel death in order ta disprove our Lord’s claim that he was the Son o’ God. They thought he might bargain with them or like a magician, he might come down from the cross unscathed.

Why did he not do as they wanted?

Alan smiled. Because he knew that he had ta die ta save us all from sin.

Reverend, folks are still sinnin’.

But Jasus forgives those who repent their sins.

Drew nodded and kept looking around the church. The colors of the stained glass windows caught his eye. How do they do that? Color the glass, I mean?

That I dunnot know, Drew. We’ll have ta ask those that make ‘em.

It’s pretty, Drew said. Must make people happy ta come here.

Ya’d think so, but not everyone enjoys comin’ ta service.

Then dunnot come.

Some think they must.

Drew’s eyebrows knitted. Silly, he whispered. So, what is it I’m ta do?

Come on up here by the altar with me.

Alan McLean began to explain Drew’s duties of bringing the wine and bread to him on those Sundays when communion was observed. He showed him the Book