“He’s my friend,” she corrected, drawing out the word as though Kat were five. “Next to you, he’s probably my best friend. And he needs some help.”
“That’s fine. You make sure to get his life in order and then, when you’re older, you can look back and wonder what you did about yours. I’m sorry Sarah. It’s just that this is the perfect escape for you − an intensely romantic relationship with no chance of marriage or even sex.”
“What are you talking about? I love sex!” Sarah blushed at her vehemence. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You know me better than that. I pursue pleasure relentlessly.”
“You pursue tame pleasures. Controllable, cheerful little pleasures. Sex can be dark and messy.”
Sarah remembered how she’d bolted from Joseph and compared it to the calm she felt with Colin. What was she scared of? Paul’s appeal, much as she hated to admit it, was his arrogance. The leather jacket, the punk rock blasting from his studio, the cheerful selfishness of his talent. Colin’s appeal was his goodness. It wasn’t a sentimental sort of goodness; it wasn’t even particularly warm; but you could use old-fashioned words like honour and integrity to describe him. When she was with Colin, she felt anchored, secure from the world’s drift.
“Look, I’ll stay as focused as I can, and I’ll leave as soon as I can,” she promised. Tilting her head back, she drained the last sip of wine. “Meanwhile, have you ever heard the word ‘flashblood’?”
*
At dinner the conversation burst and lagged. Sarah and Jimmy seized upon any harmless topic and ran with it as long as possible, moving from the weather to past blizzards, childhood snow days, global warming . . . until it sputtered into another long silence.
She didn’t dare mention what Steven had told her in the cave. Charron might decide that Satan had found his next mark and ‘flashblood’ was an incantation. But as soon as he’d gone to his room, and only Colin and Jimmy were left at the table, she leaned forward. “Do you guys know anything about a practice called ‘flashblood’? Steven says Philip kept talking about it.”
“Flashblood,” Jimmy repeated. “Yeah, it’s an island thing. Some kind of ritual that sprang up in places that are dirt-poor and quasi-Catholic. I’m surprised you didn’t run into it in Haiti.”
Joseph wouldn’t like his faith described as quasi. Saints and prayers were a lot more real to him than they’d ever been to her. Granted, Haitians didn’t trouble themselves about dogma issued from Rome . . . Had she heard the word ‘flashblood’ there? She couldn’t remember.
“Only Philip would need to add vodou to a heroin trip,” Jimmy said. “The poor kid. Reality just wasn’t enough for him.”
“Makes you wonder just what’s on that recorder Steven set up for him,” she said.
“Orgies, no doubt.” Jimmy stood. “I’m going for a run.”
The minute she and Colin were alone, she murmured, “So what was the thing you never told me?” They’d fallen into this weird intimacy, like spies meeting behind the Iron Curtain.
“It seems ridiculous now. It was such a little thing. Kind of Agatha Christie.”
“All the better. Give.”
“When I went to Francis’s room to talk to him, he slid an envelope under a book.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “That’s it.”
“I thought I was the one with the vivid imagination.”
“I warned you it was nothing. It’s just − what would he be trying to hide?”
A life dedicated to a God no-one obeyed anymore? A genius IQ that had bought the medieval dogma wholesale? She thought about the old Jesuit’s fierce pride, how painful it must be to have such certainty shattered. He’d dedicated his life in good faith; it wasn’t his fault the world had moved on.
“Guess there’s no easy way to find out,” she said, testing. Colin just nodded, looking glum. Okay then. She’d be on her own for this one. But she’d have to wait until Charron was in class.
Back in the milkhouse, she glanced around at her belongings. Since the doll showed up, she’d been making mental notes of every object’s location before she left. Laptop open at the right angle. Nightshirt thrown over the back of the sofa. The printout Connie had made her, half revised, on the table.
Alarm clutched her throat. Hadn’t she left her paperback on the couch? She ran up to the loft, heart pounding.
No, here it was, splayed open on top of her bed. Her own bad habit.
Still, the place felt different, a shift in energy. She’d always been able to tell if a house was empty the minute she walked in. This was the opposite − a sense of presence. And that presence felt hostile.
*
After a quick game of toss-the-duck, Sarah felt calmer and the dog was ready to nap. She glanced up at the old-fashioned analogue clock and saw hands slicing its bright white face in half, 9:15. Haiti was an hour ahead. Too late to call most people, but Joseph stayed up past midnight. She pulled up his phone number and stared at it. Did she want to open this door?
She punched the digits. Pressed the off button. Punched again. You are pathetic, she told herself. Forget Kat. This isn’t about your sex life. A boy is dead. She punched a third time and hit ‘Talk’.
He answered right away.
“Joseph? It’s Sarah. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
“Sarah! You are never a bother! It’s very good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too. I wish I were calling for a happier reason though.” She told him about Philip. “I need to know, have you heard about a practice called ‘flashblood’? It’s a way of getting high by injecting somebody else’s blood after they’ve shot up. Somebody thought it might be popular in Haiti.”
“I doubt that very much. We have the dubious blessing of zero drug problems. People grow and smoke pot, that’s about it. There’s not even much alcoholism, except for Louis. Do you remember Louis? The guy who sat under the canopy on the edge of town making . . . what did you call it? . . .”
“Moonshine?” She stretched out on the bed, enjoying his warm, melodic voice.
“Yes. Such a great image, to make the moon shine. Not so great for his liver though.”
“And that’s it? No drugs?”
“Nobody can afford them. Injectable drugs would be a luxury in Milot.”
There I go again, she thought − the insensitive, privileged American unable to fathom a life so difficult. In Haiti she’d gushed compliments about how resilient people were, what delicious food they cooked on wood fires, how immaculate the children’s clothes were, even without electricity. Fawning and clueless. What the Haitians did was survive, with learned grace.
“You might ask Sister Ann,” Joseph said easily. “There could be some isolated use, even a ritual use I’m not aware of.” He sounded fine. Maybe he was so used to Americans’ stupidity it didn’t even register anymore.
“Would a nun know?”
“My God, yes. Those women know everything.”
“Great. I’ll email her. I want to see how Venez is, anyway.”
“Sarah, do you think . . .” He broke off, and she heard insistent knocking in the background. A woman’s voice called, “Joseph! It’s me!” with a happy lilt.
Sarah sat up fast. “You’ve got company. I’ll try Sister Ann. Thanks.” She turned off her phone and threw it on the bed. Of course he has a girlfriend already, she told herself irritably. Every beautiful nurse at that hospital followed him with sheep eyes.
Get over it, she told herself. Go email Sister Ann. It would take a while to hear back − the sisters had to walk up to the prosthetics trailer to get an internet connection. No point mooning about Joseph, either. She’d had her chance, and she’d run right back to her little mosquito-netted cot. He’d looked so hurt when she left. And now here she was with Colin, who wouldn’t dream of breaking his vows even if she wanted him to.
She sighed. All these noble, virtuous men in her life, and sh
e still went to bed with a poodle.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Waking with a start, Colin looked around his bedroom and saw familiar shapes, everything in its place. He held his breath and listened. Nothing unusual, only an owl hooting in the distance. His nerves must be shot.
He pulled the covers over his head and wondered what it would be like to feel soft, warm skin next to his instead of a scratchy wool blanket. The tawny sandalwood scent of her, misty warm breath against his cheek, her cold toes tucked under his leg for warmth . . .
Groaning, he threw off the comforter and swung his feet out of bed, standing up so fast the room tilted. He dressed and went outside. The cold cut through the ragged tear in his Edinburgh sweatshirt and chilled his skin. Time for a new sweatshirt − he’d have to order it online.
Or maybe he should get a St. Louis sweatshirt. Go Cards. Maybe it was time to stop clinging to all things Scottish just to feel at home in the world.
The sun was just coming up, slanting pale early light across the damp ground. As he headed downhill, the night’s thoughts returned. They’d lost half their power, now that he wasn’t lying in the dark, trapped inside his head. Out here he could keep moving, drawing fresh air deep into his lungs, walking through and away from each passing idea.
He should never have let Ehrlich foist Graham on him. Matteo Academy hadn’t been the same since. Graham must have killed Philip − who else could it be? Now he was probably scouting for his next victim. It was time to grill him a little, see how he held up under pressure. It had been cowardly to expect Sarah to do that for him.
He stopped at the bridge and paced off the ground just south of it. They’d need at least three hectares for a sheep paddock, with a shelter right about here. He strode back and forth, counting and rechecking all four sides. To mark each corner and a south-facing entrance, he drove heavy sticks, sometimes tearing through a mat of dead brown grass, sometimes sliding the stick into fresh green clover that sparkled with dew.
Twenty minutes later he was cold, hungry, and calm. All the counting had soothed him. Counting sheep, he thought, and snorted with amusement. He walked into the dining hall and grabbed a couple of the cinnamon rolls Mrs. Dalton left for self-serve weekends. He’d take them back to his study and draft a letter to the boy’s parents. He was not going to let Graham Dennison destroy this school.
Wrapping the rolls in a napkin, he heard a heavy book clap shut. Graham sat across the room, an iPad propped in front of him, a stack of books to his right.
So here was his chance.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Thought I’d get some studying done.”
Colin pulled out a chair and sat. “Nice shirt.” Heather grey fleece, its front was covered by giant, varsity-style letters in dark purple, YOLO. For once, Colin knew the acronym. Luke had suggested it as an explorers’ club motto. “You only live once, Father!”
“And it lasts an eternity,” he’d countered. God, what he wouldn’t give to be talking to Luke or Max or Ben right now. Whatever their scrapes or struggles, they had a basic sweetness this boy had lost a long time ago.
He took a breath and plunged in. “Graham, you do know that if there’s anything you want to tell me, the seal of confessional can hold, here and now?”
The dark blue eyes flashed a look Colin couldn’t read. “Meaning you’re looking for a confession?”
Colin’s voice went quiet. “Meaning it’s time we speak the truth to each other.”
“Good idea. I’ll start. You don’t want me here. Why pretend some bogus Christian forgiveness?”
“So you admit there’s need of forgiveness?”
“That’s your schtick Father, not mine. You’re supposed to find me redemption whether I need it or not. But you’re not feeling very priestly are you? You think I’ve fucked up your holy little school and murdered your pet pupil.”
“I’m still trying to figure out whether you tried to kill your mother,” Colin flashed back.
“Where were you when yours died?”
The words landed like a punch. To save face, Colin walked over to the orange juice dispenser and stood there, back to Graham, fists clenched. Squished dough and frosting oozed from the sides of the napkin he’d wrapped around the cinnamon roll. He slid the soggy bundle into the trash, smeared the sticky icing off his hand with a fresh napkin, filled a glass of juice and made himself go back to the table.
“Sorry,” Graham said, his tone subdued. “I heard the bishop tell my father how you’d lost your mother. He must have thought it would give us something in common − dead mothers, almost-dead mothers . . .”
Colin wanted anger, fierce and resolute. He wanted to be sure of just one thing, even if it was only his own rage. Instead he felt trapped under a heavy tarp, breathing stale air, losing energy by the minute. “How is your mother?” he asked, falling back into the formal headmaster role. “Have you had a chance to talk with her since you came?”
“She’s fine,” Graham said, and paused. “I really am sorry about yours.” For just an instant, his face opened, and he looked sincere and wretched.
Colin sighed. “What happened, Graham? Was it just too much for you?”
“I didn’t touch that dial,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“I thought you couldn’t remember.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“Well, the nurse said it had been changed, and the only people in the room were you and your father.” Colin’s eyes felt like somebody was holding a match to the back of his eyeballs, and he rubbed them hard. If he could just get through to this kid, get a confession or at least some sort of admission. Every time he took a step, Graham slammed another door.
When he took his hand away, Graham had shut his laptop and picked up his books. Colin watched as he walked out of the room.
*
Sunday’s Mass was the memorial service for Philip. Sarah had rinsed out her tights in the milkhouse sink, and they were still damp. She tugged them on, shivered at their clammy grip on her warm legs, and did a little jig to warm up. Simon saw movement and ran for his tennis ball, so she bounced it off the curved wall, and it came back at a wild angle. Just like every theory I’ve come up with, she thought, and threw harder. One for Father Charron, crazed by evil. One for North, willing to kill his own son to save his reputation. One for Graham, the charming sociopath.
Simon tried to field the first ball that whizzed by him, then just sat down and looked at her, head cocked.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” She lobbed the ball over to him, and he caught it in midair. “This place is getting to me. We need to go home.” Seeing his tail wag at the word didn’t help her mood.
This time she sat in the back pew so she could see who showed up from Philip’s earlier life. When a young woman with dyed, apple-red hair walked in, dressed in a droopy velvet skirt and a vintage fur-collared jacket, Sarah glanced back to the vestibule. Colin, already in his white vestments, stood there talking to Northrup Grant. Gesturing until she caught his attention, she nodded toward the young woman. He scanned the crowd, looking puzzled. Sarah curved her index finger toward the young woman and pointed as subtly as she could, then drew a question mark in the air. He looked again, his face cleared, and he nodded.
So that was the young woman who’d been in Philip’s room. Sarah memorised her pew. She’d slip up to that row during Communion so the girl would have no chance to make a hasty exit.
The organ let out a low wheeze and Colin started up the aisle. No coffin, thank God. Colin spoke first, then drew Northrup Grant to the lectern. Grant kept his words brief and safe, and he choked up only once. He closed with Ecclesiastes. “To everything, there is a season . . .” Before he finished, Steven Portel walked up to the altar, his face dazed but set, and stood behind Grant like he was queuing for the bus. Grant stepped aside and motioned him forward.
“Philip was my friend,” Steven said. “He said he liked me because I w
as honest. He wanted everybody to be honest. He said all the games and secrets were a waste of energy. I think he was right. I hope it’s not why he got killed.”
Sarah hoped Colin wouldn’t push Steven away and he didn’t, just slid one arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders and raised the other arm, palm open, making the transition obvious. “Would anyone else like to share memories of Philip?”
As the seconds ticked by the silence grew dense and uneasy, like the air before a big storm. Four rows up, the young woman kept looking around, as though she wanted to say something but was afraid she’d start to speak just as someone else did.
Adriana rose, her voice shaking. “Philip lived with courage, and his constant questions reminded me to keep my mind open. I am grateful to him every day.”
Stan went next. “What takes courage are respect and obedience.” As the slam hit home, Northrup Grant’s cheeks flushed. Up on the altar, Colin asked Steven to carry something to the sacristy, distracting him from the brat who’d just sullied his friend’s memory.
Jimmy, who was up in the first pew with Father Charron, stood. “Let’s take a moment to honour the life of Philip Grant. And let us pray for the courage to seek truth, to obey truth, to live in truth.”
Neatly done. Sarah’s breathing slowed to normal. At Colin’s gesture, they all rose for the Offertory.
When the Communion line formed, Sarah moved up to the young woman’s pew. She walked back from Communion, bent to pick up her purse, and continued out the back of the church. Sarah slid out of the pew and followed her.
“You’re Philip’s friend!” she called, as soon as the heavy church door swung shut. “I wanted to talk to you for a second.”
The young woman glanced over her shoulder, but kept walking toward her car, a silver Audi wagon that looked nothing like her.
“Wait! Please!” Sarah reached the side of the car and tapped on the window just as the engine started. The young woman rolled her eyes and lowered the window.
“What?”
“Tell me about Philip. Please. What was going on with him right before he died? How did you know him? Did you know he was using heroin? I won’t tell the cops, I promise. I’m just trying to . . .”
A Circumstance of Blood Page 19