McAvoy opened a file folder and paged through its contents. Stalling, Graham decided, clicking through emails. He’d probably read that file five times already.
“Why should I trust you?” McAvoy asked, closing the folder and making the obligatory eye contact.
“I don’t give a fuck if you trust me, Father. I just have to get through senior year.”
McAvoy pushed the folder away and stood. “Thanks for coming in. Give my best to your parents.”
At least the man didn’t bother with small talk. Graham reached for his backpack. “So when do I start?”
“You don’t.”
“But you have to take me!”
McAvoy smiled for the first time, a little shit-eating grin that quirked up the corners of his mouth, and walked to the door to hold it open. “I do not.”
Graham stood and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “My father will be sorry to hear that. He must have been misinformed by the bishop.”
“Indeed.”
When he reached the door, Graham hesitated. Time to bend the situation back to his advantage. “Look, Father, I know I’ve come across as a real prick. I mean, excuse my language. I’ve . . .”
“Your language is not the point. Your attitude is.”
He let the backpack slip to the ground. “I need someplace to finish high school,” he said, letting the force drain from his voice. “What would it take for you to consider me?”
McAvoy didn’t answer right away, waited until Graham looked him in the eye. “Let’s start over,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s 9:32. Your appointment will be at ten. Come back on time.”
*
Three days hunched in front of her new laptop in sweats, mainlining coffee and listening to the radiator clank, and Sarah still couldn’t figure out how to structure the piece. Follow her own journey? Predictable and self-indulgent. Themed flashbacks? Too loopy and complicated. What if she started with the smallest traumas − the tarantulas in the shower, the baby goats hanging upside down from the motorcycles, bleating piteously − and moved to the worst?
She jotted memories: Jacques, his neck swollen by a grapefruit-sized growth that would slowly strangle him. Gracia, who wouldn’t even allow herself to wince when her son gathered her frail body into his arms and carried her to the next building to have her broken hip X-rayed. Venez, tiny and solemn, sitting cross-legged in the centre of her cot wearing a fluffy yellow organza dress Sister Ann had found for her. Both of Venez’s parents were dead of ‘le cholera’. She’d . . .
The doorbell rang, Simon barked and Sarah jumped, almost knocking her beer over. The dog beat her to the door, eighty pounds of black standard poodle scrabbling for purchase on the slick hardwood floor. Through the peephole she saw Colin McAvoy in the dim Art Deco hallway, a brown paper bag in his arms.
Heart racing ahead of her, she swung the door open. “Colin!” She hid her confusion by hugging him and felt the bag’s contents press into her middle, sharp-cornered and hot. “How are you? You barely answered my emails the whole time you were in Scotland.” And you didn’t even call when you came home.
“I know. I’m sorry. It . . . was a rough time.” Petting Simon with his free hand, he mumbled that he hadn’t really known what to say. “Then, when I got back, I was hiring teachers and painting classrooms. When the semester finally settled down, I couldn’t reach you, so I tried the paper and they said you were in Haiti. Which, apparently, your mother didn’t realise?”
“Please God tell me you didn’t tell her.”
“Of course not. She said something vague and pleasant about an island, and I just asked her to let me know when you got back. Then I signed up for State Department alerts on the election riots and the cholera epidemic.” He shifted the bag to his other arm. “Can I set this down someplace?”
“Sure.” She swept all her notebooks to one end of the table. “I was just trying to . .”
“Work. I figured. But you’ve got to eat, so I brought us some pad Thai and . . .” He glanced down at her plate, which held the last of the York mints. “Seriously?”
“I couldn’t face the grocery store yet. So your school’s up and running?”
“Aye. We’ve got a good group of kids so far − they’re West County boys who grew up easy, but they’re bright enough to know it. And, if the archdiocese ever prises open its coffers, we’ll have a good mix of kids.”
As he opened cartons, the rich fragrance of fish sauce and garlic, cut with fresh lime, wafted out with the steam. Overcome with joy, Simon spun his favourite toy − a cloth Santa on a hoop − into the air. Colin stretched a long arm behind Sarah and caught it with one finger. “It’s always Christmas,” he said, his tone so wry she looked up. Colin didn’t hit cynicism unless he was seriously depressed.
“You okay?” she asked. “I mean, I hate to be this direct, but usually when you bring me food you need help.”
He winced. “I didn’t realise I was such a cad. How about we eat first? We’ve got two years to catch up.” He pulled out her chair − Colin had the slightly over-formal manners of a kid who came from dreams instead of money. With all the grace she could muster in sweatpants, she sat. Simon rested his chin on the tabletop and followed their guest’s fork with his eyes.
“So you’ve still got some time before you have to go back to the paper, right?” Colin asked.
“Not enough. The grant’s for a long-form narrative about Haiti’s medical care.” She bit into a soft tangle of noodles and mumbled through it. “I’ve got to write 12,000 words by the end of January. You’re lucky I answered the door.”
Flattening the empty cartons, he returned them to the paper bag one by one, as though the task required deep concentration. While she chewed her last bite, Sarah let her eyes rest on his long, craggy face. He’d look as gentle as a poet if it weren’t for that jutting cleft chin. “The devil’s thumbprint,” she used to tease him, liking the notion of a little hidden wickedness. Colin’s high-minded principles could be exhausting.
Tonight, though, there was something unfocused, even uncertain, about him.
“I thought you could come stay at the school for a few days,” he said, too casually, “and write there. You’d have all your meals cooked for you − Mrs. Dalton is amazing.”
So he did want something. Something big, because he was tiptoeing into it like a doctor with bad news.
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, “but I’m just fine here. I know the pizza delivery number by heart.”
“I could ask one of the boys to walk Simon for you. And you’d have plenty of peace and quiet.”
“Um . . . Colin? I can’t think of anything less peaceful than being surrounded by teenage boys.”
He sighed. “Somehow I don’t think this is going to change your mind.” He told her about Graham Dennison. “Yesterday’s faculty meeting was a nightmare. The staff all think I should have defied the bishop.” He met her eyes. “I can’t afford to be wrong about this kid.”
“Sweetie, I wrote one book, about a boy who went crazy and killed his mother. I’m a journalist, not a shrink.”
“Yeah, but you read people better than I do. You could just talk to him a few times, ask him questions. We could tell him you’re doing a book on childhood aggression or something.”
Colin never lied, and she’d never known him to spin a story to justify anything. Fighting cold dread, she stacked their sticky dishes. He’s the one panicking, she reminded herself. It’s his anxiety you’re feeling, not your own.
Carrying the plates to her tiny black-and-white kitchen, she rinsed them for her ancient dishwasher, glad of a minute’s distance. “Seems a bit manipulative,” she called through the arched doorway.
“Believe me, Graham Dennison can take care of himself. I just need to make sure I didn’t make a serious mistake by accepting him.”
“Well, you can’t be sure he’s a sociopath.” She returned to the table. “People bat that wo
rd around like a wiffle ball these days.”
“That’s what I said. But Jimmy seems to think it’s a foregone conclusion.”
“Jimmy Cadigan?” She felt a rush of relief.
“Yeah. I hired him in November.”
“I thought he was in grad school doing − what’s it called − ethnomusicology?”
“It wasn’t practical enough to satisfy the provincial. We decided teaching teenagers would be the next best thing to field work in the jungle.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about Jimmy. He’s had your back since college.” The three of them had made a solid triangle for a few semesters, going on frozen custard runs at midnight and quizzing each other before exams. Then Colin and Jimmy had gone off to do a year of theology, and she’d had a disastrous affair with a Jungian poet.
“As for the others,” she continued, “it’s probably just easier to be mad at you than scared of their new student.”
“What worries me is that what I’m using to rationalise this − the idea that Graham could be entirely blameless − is true. He could be.” He hunched forward and steepled his fingers, a gesture that would look stagey from anybody else. “I’m not sure what would be harder to live with, selling out to the hierarchy or not giving this kid a chance because he scares me.”
“Is that what you think you’re doing? Selling out?”
“No.” He met her eyes. “I think it’s a trade off. A bit of autonomy for a great deal of money.”
“And the cosiness shattered. It sounds like your faculty’s already on edge.”
“I’m losing their trust.”
“That’s because you go all Scottish when you’re in crisis mode, cold and haughty and self-contained. It doesn’t reassure people.”
“And just how am I supposed to reassure them, when I’ve brought in a kid who’s either a misunderstood adolescent or an amoral monster and I don’t know which?” He clattered their silverware together and carried it out to the kitchen. She heard a rush of water and the click of her tea-kettle’s spout.
“There’s Earl Grey in the cannister,” she called.
While the water heated, he came back and stood behind her chair, hands warm on her shoulders. “Look, I know how important this Haiti piece is to you.”
No, he didn’t. She’d told no-one about the job opening. Stu Halverson, the only other serious reporter at Gateway, had left to work for the Kavanaugh Foundation, travelling to trouble spots around the world to report on human-rights violations. Now that his wife was pregnant, he was quitting, and he’d recommended Sarah to replace him. Her alt-newsweekly stories about wacky right-wing politicians and lurid crimes would never do for clips − she needed the Haiti piece to submit with her application.
“I swear to you, I’ll make sure you have all the time you need,” he continued. “No cooking, no chores, no interruptions. Besides, you haven’t even seen the school yet.” He squeezed her shoulders lightly. “I might be a cold Scottish bastard, but you’ve got enough empathy for both of us. You’ll sense the lack of it.”
“I’m sensing it right now,” she said crossly. “Go home, sweet Colin. You’ll get through this. I need to work.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jeans, kibbles, laptop, toothbrush, a skirt to meet the sociopath. Sarah tossed her bag into the trunk of her ancient Miata and opened the front passenger door for Simon, who refused to ride anywhere else. She pulled the seat belt across the soft white patch of curls on his chest and buckled him in. When she turned out of the below-surface garage he sat very straight, shifting his weight from one front paw to the other, eyes on the road ahead.
After Milot’s quiet dirt streets the extra-loud radio commercials grated on her nerves, and she switched to the classical station. By the time she reached the Missouri River bridge, it was dark and starting to sleet. Fumbling with her phone’s new navigation app, she watched the dot that was her car glide right past Highway N. A silver Mercedes streaked past her going about eighty miles an hour in the opposite direction, splashing up water that froze the second it hit her windshield. She cursed, and Simon shot her an anxious glance.
“It’s okay, we’re fine. I just have to . . .” Using the entrance to a horse ranch, she made a wide U-turn, slipping a bit on the icing road. As she turned the wheel to bring the Miata back under control, a rusty pickup truck pulled out right in front of her, barely visible. She braked and careened again. A high, brief whine came from the back of Simon’s throat.
By the time the Miata crept through the gates of the Village of Aberdeen, Sarah had the steering wheel in a stranglehold. She pried her hands loose finger by finger and took a deep breath, consciously relaxing her neck and shoulder muscles. Then she hunched forward again, peering into the dark trees on her right. Through the scrim of sleet, they looked flat, a stage backdrop for a low-budget production of Grimm’s fairy tales. A narrow side road blocked a few yards down by an iron gate, Colin had said.
“He could’ve tied balloons,” she said, making her voice cheerful. Simon wasn’t fooled for a minute. He’d been breathing in shallow pants since they left the highway. “Why I said yes is the real question,” she informed him. “Pure solitude at last, and I give it up for free meals and a chance to play shrink?”
She felt the warmth of Colin’s hands on her shoulders again, and her cheeks flamed. She leaned closer to the icy windshield. There. That had to be the road. Glad to break her thoughts, she hopped out and swung back the gate, unlocked as he’d promised. Now to get the Miata up the ice-glazed hill. She downshifted to first gear and chugged forward, forcing herself to go as slow as possible. After a few small houses she saw nothing but trees, their ice-slicked branches shiny in her headlights.
Eyes straight ahead, she kept her foot light and steady on the accelerator, scared to brake. As the road wound higher she braved a quick glance to the right and saw the school, nestled in dense woods at the very top of the bluff. Rain had darkened its massive limestone front, and golden light filled a two-story arched bay window.
Sarah’s breath caught, and she forgot to be furious. This was Colin’s dream. He’d confided it back in college, late one rainy night, the ideas tumbling out of him. He’d been the special scholarship boy, sent off to a seminary prep school in Glasgow to study alongside the rich kids. “Nothing but tokenism,” he said − it was the only time she’d ever heard him bitter. “Why can’t we bring rich and poor kids together in equal numbers? That’s the only way they’ll ever find a middle ground.”
Points to him. He’d made a start. And as she pulled into the half-circle drive, she saw him leaning against the arched double doors in jeans and a ragged University of Edinburgh sweatshirt. “You found it!” he called. “Were the roads bad?”
Not dignifying that with an answer, she unbent limb by limb, stiff as her grandmother, and released Simon from his seat belt.
“Right. I was afraid of that.” Colin grabbed her duffel bag, slammed her hatch shut and stepped ahead of her to open the school’s heavy door.
“Wow.” She stood in the doorway, cold air at her back, and took in the terrazzo floor and grand staircase, carved oak leaves winding up and around the newel posts. ‘Welcome to Matteo Academy’ hung from the landing, black hand-cut letters on gold felt. “This doesn’t look like any school I ever went to,” she muttered, peering into the narrow cloakroom. A grid of open wood shelves, stained dark to match the woodwork, lined the walls, making cubes where the boys could throw books, jackets, sneakers.
“No secret lockers to stash contraband,” Colin murmured. In the parlour across the hall, two boys sat bent over a chessboard, pretending not to notice her arrival. One slid his bishop across three squares, but kept his finger on the pointed hat. The other fixed his gaze on the board and waited, absently rubbing bony knees that jutted out beneath his baggy khaki shorts.
“Now there’s a picture,” she whispered. “Are they all that focused and intense?”
“They’re on the
ir best behaviour for you. I give it ten minutes.”
Wooden columns framed the opening to the common room, which looked like a burial ground for overstuffed furniture. Over the stone fireplace hung a Scottish coat of arms, and Sarah hid a smile. Colin’s parents had been working class, not lairds, but he managed to inject his Highlands ancestry into every place he inhabited. How the vow of poverty accommodated these purchases she’d never had the nerve to ask.
In the far corner she saw a curve of glossy black. “Your piano! Bet they were blown away when they heard you play.”
“They’ve not heard me. The idea is for them to play.”
“But why on earth wouldn’t you . . .”
She was talking to his back; he was in the hall already. In college, if the two of them happened to be alone, he’d start a Chopin piece, really soft, on the old piano in the student lounge. The minute somebody came in he’d slide into the final bars of Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ and stop playing. It still baffled her. With talent like his, she’d play for anybody.
In the faculty dining room, she rested her hand on the long oak table and took in the high-backed chairs and square, deep-set clerestory windows. “Nice,” she said. “Just one thing . . .” She climbed on a chair and unhooked the tiny crystal teardrops dangling from the chandelier. Without the fussy sparkle, its light steadied and warmed.
“Better,” Colin agreed, helping her down. He kept hold of her hand as they walked upstairs, his grip so firm that her grandmother’s amethyst ring slid around and crushed her pinkie. His hand was warm after the icy drive, and she wiggled the stone back in safecracker increments to avoid breaking contact.
They walked past the second-floor classrooms, the third floor labs, the sealed wing with bedrooms for Jimmy and Father Charron, then took a narrower set of back stairs to the slope-ceilinged fourth floor. When Colin pushed open his door, she saw a simple wood dresser and a bed, no wider than a cot, covered with a thin white cotton spread.
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