Ghosts of the Orphanage

Copyright © 2023 by Christine KenneallyCover design by Pete GarceauCover photograph copyright © Ian MacLellanCover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.PublicAffairsHachette Book Group1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104www.publicaffairsbooks.com@Public_AffairsFirst Edition: March 2023Published by PublicAffairs, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The PublicAffairs name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or email HachetteSpeakers @hbgusa.com.PublicAffairs books may be purchased in bulk for business, educational, or promotional use. For information, please contact your local bookseller or Hachette Book Group Special Markets Department at [email protected]. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: Kenneally, Christine, author.Title: Ghosts of the orphanage : a story of mysterious deaths, a conspiracy of silence, and a search for justice / Christine Kenneally.Description: First edition. | New York : PublicAffairs, 2023. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022026574 | ISBN 9781541758513 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781541758506 (ebook)Subjects: LCSH: Orphanages—United States—History. | Catholic Church—United States—History. | Child abuse—United States—History. Classification: LCC HV978 .K46 2023 | DDC 362.73/2—dc23/eng/20221011 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026574ISBNs: 9781541758513 (hardcover), 9781541758506 (ebook)E3-20230206-JV-NF-ORI CONTENTS CoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationACT I Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4ACT II Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18ACT III Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Author’s NoteAcknowledgmentsDiscover MoreAbout the AuthorNotes To the truth tellers Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.Tap here to learn more. ACT IThe virtue of discretion is one of the most necessary virtues in religious life. A discreet Sister is a pillar in a house. One who lacks discretion can do considerable harm.—Reports of Provincial Superior of Official Visits to St. Joseph’s Orphanage, April 16, 1947 CHAPTER 1IT WAS A FREEZING DAY IN JANUARY 2016 WHEN I PASSED THROUGH A long-locked door and first set foot into what had once been St. Joseph’s Orphanage. The beautiful, spooky old hulk of a building was dark and frigid, and as I walked through the hallways, the sound of my feet against the worn wood floors was amplified in the long corridors.In the cold winter light, the basement dining room, once an optimistic yellow, had an uneasy green tinge. Here and there the paint blistered. I tried to picture all the children sitting here at their little tables, eating their food and keeping their heads down, dreading the consequences if they got sick.I walked up the stairs, above the lattice-panel doorway that led to the confessional, past the polished wood posts, past exposed brick and moldering mortar. A dark corridor ran the length of the building, as it did on each of the three other floors. Polished by generations of children, the floor still reflected a dull gleam. To one side opened a room of cupboards, their wooden shelves blanched with dust, the children’s numbers still clearly marked: 53, 19, 34…After years of talking to former residents and reading their words, I felt like I already knew every nook and corner. Here in the confessional, on one side of the wooden grill, a young boy told a priest that another priest had touched him. The priest’s reaction to this story was angry and dismissive. Now, I knew, he was also an accused abuser. Here at this bench in a side room, children were pulled in from the corridor and deputized as godparents in quick baptismal ceremonies conducted over abandoned newborns. Here on this floor, a young girl had been forced to troop up and down the hallway, staggering with exhaustion in the middle of the night. Here was the freezing bathroom where a nun swung a girl by her back brace until she bounced off the walls. Here at the elevator door, a girl had clutched each side of the doorway in a mad panic as two nuns behind her tugged her into the small space.Here, finally, on the top floor, was a pinched, steep staircase caked in dust, and at the top of it, the attic. Every inch of the building below had been assigned a clear purpose. But the vast, eerie attic, with its immense crisscrossing beams and dark rafters, felt almost like a forest, a wild place.It occurred to me as I stepped nervously across the loft that the Sisters of Providence had probably been frightened of the attic, too. Even when they punished children there, they often went up in pairs. Except maybe for Sister James Mary, who had seemed so energized by rage and hatred and control. Here among the statues and old chests, she had strapped an unhappy teenage girl named Sally Dale into a chair and told her that the chair was electric and would fry her. I stood on the loft and looked around. I tried to conjure up Sally, to see her in the chair. I wanted to tell her that I knew what happened to her. She had not been forgotten. Her words had lived on. But all that was left were echoes and dust.IN THE FALL OF 1994, SALLY DALE OF MIDDLETOWN, CONNECTICUT, RECEIVED an invitation in the mail. A two-day reunion would be held at the Hampton Inn in Colchester, Vermont, for “survivors” of St. Joseph’s Orphanage, which struck Sally as an odd word to use. She hadn’t been in touch with anyone from the orphanage for a long time. She thought about the place as little as possible. But