A Circumstance of Blood

by Jeannette Batz Cooperman

  “Can’t imagine why,” Sarah said dryly. “It’s not like you’re under any stress or anything.”

  Adriana flashed her a quick, grateful smile, then looked down at her mug again, turning it back and forth by the thick handle. “That night. The night Philip died. That was the first time we . . .” The vague gesture and pink cheeks finished the sentence.

  “And then you woke up to that news.” Sarah said it slowly, remembering how she’d floated through the next day after she and Paul first made love. Blushing for no reason, drifting into memories and startling when somebody called her name. To have that glow cut off, and the world go black with shock and grief . . . poor Adriana.

  North was cooler, more compartmentalised. But was he cold enough to rush from his first love’s arms to kill his son?

  *

  Sarah decided not to confess breaking and entering just yet, but she did tell Colin about Story. “She talked about an ‘exchange’ − that could have been the flashblood ritual, exchanging heroin and blood.”

  “Right.” Colin’s voice was preoccupied, almost uninterested.

  “She also dropped a bombshell.” That got his attention. “I’ll tell you the details later, but North isn’t . . .”

  “Philip’s real father.” Colin reached over and closed her dropped jaw with his forefinger. “I talked to his mother this afternoon. North married her out of chivalry.”

  “He was probably still feeling guilty about Adriana.”

  “What I’m wondering is whether Philip knew.”

  “He’d just found out. They had an angry confrontation.” She gave Colin a meaningful look. “I told you Northrup Grant deserved a closer look.”

  He nodded. “See what your guy found out about his alibi.”

  On her way back to the milkhouse, she called O’Rourke.

  “Yeah, I had to do about five thousand crossword puzzles waiting for the right guard, and then I had to pay him three hundred bucks,” he grumbled.

  She blanched. “Um . . . I don’t have a lot of spare cash for this, you know.”

  “I’ve got plenty, courtesy of the U.S. government. Consider it a favour.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to owe O’Rourke a favour that big, but it was too late to worry about it. “Did you watch the tape? What time did he come home?”

  “Around one in the morning. That doesn’t get you anywhere, though. He still would’ve had time to drive up from her house to the school.”

  She hung up and sat staring through the band of thin windows, each ribbon of glass a separate reality. Across the lawn the school’s side door swung open, and she followed a figure in grey sweats across the windows as he jogged toward the woods. She recognised Jimmy’s slight build, his grey Matteo sweatshirt. Lately he’d been going on two, sometimes three hard runs a day.

  It had to be his grandfather’s imminent death, she decided. Even the shock of a murder wears off in time. Only family crawls into your psyche and stays there.

  She could still see Mr. Cadigan, his eyes as bright a blue as Jimmy’s, his cheeks reddened by whiskey. Full of bluff and bluster, he’d been quick with a wink or a bit of palaver when it suited his needs. Once a semester, he’d summon Jimmy and his friends to his mansion for lavish, painful Sunday dinners at which he’d talk about the millions he made in real estate and his ropeless climb into the upper class. By the time he poured the port and lit his cigar, he’d be haranguing Jimmy for having no worldly ambitions. “If you want to forgive sins, my son, you’ve got to experience a few first.”

  Cadigan, Irish first name . . . She checked Whitepages.com and saw it right away: Seamus Cadigan, on Polo Drive. Seamus had never craved subtlety. On impulse, she punched the number. He wouldn’t be there anyway − he’d be off at some fancy hospice.

  A woman answered. Surprised, Sarah stumbled a little. “Oh, hello. I didn’t expect − I’m an old friend of Seamus’s. I heard he was in the hospital. I wonder if you could tell me which one?”

  “He’s right here,” the woman said cheerily. “Seamus, it’s one of your lady friends.”

  Sarah heard soft thuds as she rearranged pillows, a grunt as he scooted up in the bed.

  “Who’ll be there, then?” he asked, fainter than she remembered, but with the same Old Country inflections. It was pure sham − he’d been born on Mullanphy Street, in St. Louis’ Irish ghetto. But it made a salesman’s blarney more palatable, and Seamus knew it.

  “It’s Sarah Markham, Mr. Cadigan. I went to college with Jimmy? He said you were terribly ill, and I just wanted to − ” she groped for a phrase − “pay my respects.”

  “Respects, eh? That sounds like you’re burying me. I’m not after dying yet, you know. Damned cancer’s eating my stomach, but it’s taking its own sweet time. If it brings a call from a pretty girl, though, it’s worth the pain. How are you, lass?”

  “I’m fine. Still working at the newspaper. I saw Jimmy out at Colin’s school.”

  “He’s still got no backbone, but I guess God needs the charming ones too. I told him not to bother using his charm with me. The will’s already notarised. He’ll get his share and give it all to that damned school.” He coughed, a phlegmy hack that turned into a wheeze when he gasped air back in. She took the excuse to say a quick goodbye.

  Had Kat misunderstood? This sounded like a slow cancer, not imminent death. So why had Jimmy skipped his class?

  *

  When Colin walked into his outer office, Connie was listening to voicemail on speaker − a Greek chorus of angry parents demanding to know what was being done and threatening to pull their sons out of school. Her cheeks had flushed such a dark red, he did a quick mental review of the warning signs of stroke. “Just turn the machine off,” he urged. “I’ll call them back as I can.”

  She raised both hands, slashing through the air in a fit of frustration. “I know,” he said. But he hadn’t. She still managed to be so competent that he hadn’t taken full measure of how helpless she felt without a voice. No longer could she soothe, cajole or lightly scold. She couldn’t even answer a phone. And what she managed to scrawl on paper must feel blunt and truncated, compared to the deft way she used to handle any crisis.

  Connie wasted no time on self-pity though. ‘Steven’s mother threatening to sue for $1 million,’ she scrawled. ‘Says we’ve emo. traumatised her son.’

  “A million dollars? We don’t have a million dollars. Even if we did, do you know how many kids’ full tuition that would pay?” Colin sank into a chair. “I should have seen this one coming.”

  He, Connie and Jimmy had triple-teamed Mrs. Portel last August, assuring her that her brilliant, hypersensitive son would thrive at Matteo. Her husband had divorced her the year before and given her carte blanche in all the parenting decisions, a freedom that only terrified her. The trade off seemed to be custody payments; the father hadn’t made a single one. Steven had qualified easily for one of the two private scholarships.

  “Email Ehrlich, will you, and ask him for the name of the archdiocese’s lawyer?” he asked. Nodding, Connie wrote a bulleted list.

  *Lt. M. has ?s about Philip’s video.

  *Jimmy needs final approvals for memorial service.

  *Fox 2 wants to interview you.

  “Dammit.” He called Jimmy. “Hey. Do whatever you want with the memorial. I trust you.”

  “We’re getting sued? I stopped by a while ago and Connie was in shock.”

  “Mrs. Portel works for lawyers, remember?”

  “Shit. Why doesn’t she just pull her precious son out if she’s that upset?”

  “Because she’s scared to be his mother. I’ve got to go − I’ll catch you up later.”

  Colin called Sarah.

  “You could just text me,” she said, sounding amused by his frequent calls.

  She’ll be even more amused an hour from now, he thought. “I can’t put Fox off any longer. I need you to prep me.”

  “Oh, man
. You’re about as media savvy as my stuffed bear.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  When Sarah came into the outer office, Connie held up crossed fingers.

  “I don’t believe in petitionary prayer,” Sarah murmured, “but try the Memorare.” She went into Colin’s office and shut the door.

  First, she drilled him in the basics. Stand up straight, look right at the camera or the interviewer, don’t blink too often, avoid nervous smiles and too many hand gestures, take your time. Then she started role playing.

  “Okay, I’m Fox News. How could you let something like this happen on your watch, Father?”

  “I don’t know,” he said miserably. “Don’t make me try to spin that one.”

  “It’s not spin, it’s reframing. ‘I don’t know’ sounds weak. Take control. Come back with your own message. ‘There was no way to foresee this tragedy. We are deeply concerned about every student here, and we’ve arranged for a counsellor to be present on campus.’ You have, haven’t you?”

  “We’ve got somebody coming,” he said wearily. “But that doesn’t answer the question.”

  “It wasn’t really a question. It was a goad. You don’t have to answer anything that abrasive. Ignoring it will make them look rude and intrusive. Hold your shoulders back − you’re slouching again.” She ignored his glare. “The jacket’s good. Remember, don’t smile too much.”

  “I have no intention of smiling at these people at all.”

  “Well, don’t be surly, either. That comes across loud and clear. And don’t let your eyes rove. It looks shifty.”

  That did it. He stood. “I’m not doing this.”

  “You have to Colin,” she said, fully serious now. “You’re the head of school. You’re responsible for these boys’ safety.”

  “And a fine job I’ve done of that.”

  “Lose the remorse. It’ll show on TV.”

  “Do you have any idea how ridiculously shallow all this is?”

  “I do. But until you can play the game their way, you can’t get past it to focus on what matters.”

  Connie knocked, using the four-beat ‘loud, soft-soft LOUD’ she reserved for high alert. She handed Colin her notepad. Her Sharpie had bled through, fuzzing the bold caps: ‘FOX ON WAY UP’.

  “Right,” he sighed. “Show them in when they get here. Sarah, get lost.”

  “You don’t want me to . . .”

  “See my humiliation? No. But I do thank you deeply for your help.”

  She knew exactly how to read that formal courtesy. “I’m out of here,” she said, and blew him a kiss. “You’ll do fine.”

  *

  Dismissed, Sarah went back to the milkhouse and scrolled through her emails, deleting news flashes from fake-friendly publicists in New York. ‘Hey, Sarah! How’ve you been? Just wanted to drop a note about our latest custom closet system, which keeps a database of all your accessories!’

  Casper wanted her to think about an article on unions. ‘I ran into an old buddy. He organized Local 47 back in the ‘80s, and he’s got some amazing stories . . .’

  “It’s over, Casper,” she said aloud. “Unions are over. Working-stiff camaraderie is over.” She was deleting so fast, she zapped an email from Stu and had to fish it out of the trash.

  ‘They’ve interviewed three candidates already. How soon can you get your clips here?’

  She called his cell. “I’m at a friend’s school, helping him out with a crisis. Once I’m home I’ll be able to focus properly. I thought the deadline wasn’t until the end of the month?”

  “Half the world’s print journalists are out of a job Sarah. They’re not taking their time.”

  “I’m not taking my time either!”

  “Somebody else is. And you always let that happen. Remember how we missed the deadline for the Pulitzer because your friend’s mother was sick.”

  That was Colin too, she realised with a jolt. He’d called when he learned his mother had cancer, and Sarah had left work early to meet him. “It was 2001,” she pointed out. “Remember 9/11? We weren’t going to win a Pulitzer for a three-month investigation of sex trafficking in downtown hotels.”

  “Look, I’m stalling for you the best I can. But my boss hates searches. If he fastens down on somebody . . . Just get it done, okay?”

  She clicked off and threw the phone at her pillow. Simon, who’d been curled at her feet, jumped up in a scramble of legs and paws. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s all right. I’ve just got to get this thing done.” She kissed the top of his head. “You stay here and nap. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Somehow it was easier to concentrate in the library, a few degrees removed from the angst of her inner world. Settling in the window seat, her bottom warmed by the radiator below, she opened her laptop and leaned her cheek against the window’s diamond panes. They were frosted at the corners, and she peered through one of the clear ovals, gazing down at the picture-perfect village of Aberdeen.

  It really was charming. The shops all had dark green tile roofs and holly wreaths on their doors, and there wasn’t a billboard in sight. But judging from Jane Sealy’s remarks, this was an uneasy cohabitation, the large grid of new-money, faux-rural lots ringed by plainspoken, deep-rooted farm families. Would Colin’s school divide that way, once he mixed all this privilege with kids who’d grown up rough? The two groups would sand each other smooth, he always said. But after a childhood surrounded by gunshots and screaming fights, peeling lead-based paint and lousy schools and crappy food? The need might be too raw.

  Not her problem she reminded herself. She opened the job application pdf and started filling in blanks.

  *

  “You did fine, Father,” the reporter said. “Thanks so much.” He exited, leaving the camera crew to turn off their pole lights and coil their power cords. Colin joked with them, thanked them, and walked them to the door. Then he pulled out Morganstern’s card and punched in her number.

  “Lieutenant? This is Colin McAvoy. Were you were able to restore Philip’s laptop? I’d like to see his video project for myself.”

  She hesitated. “It’s evidence, Father. And, to be blunt, you’re not off the suspect list.”

  “Then you can film me watching it and use my reactions against me. Look, Lieutenant, I opened this school. I know the place’s inner workings; I might be able to shed some light. And, with all due respect, if your investigation doesn’t get results pretty damned fast, there won’t be a school left for you to protect.”

  “You’d have to come now. I’ve got meetings all afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.” The minute he hung up his phone rang. Ehrlich. Colin told him about the lawsuit.

  “She’s not the only one who’s distressed,” Ehrlich said. “I’ve heard from several of your parents. I think you should consider shutting down, at least until the police have made an arrest.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, Bishop, I don’t intend to shut down. I think it sends the wrong message.”

  “This isn’t a moral crusade, Father. It’s a murder.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Will you help me stay open?”

  The older man sighed. “You have one week Father McAvoy. If this case isn’t solved in that time, staying open under that kind of cloud will do too much damage, not only to the school but to the Church.” He let his words sink in before adding, “I doubt Mrs. Portel can afford to sue us, by the way. If she can, her son shouldn’t have a scholarship.”

  “She’s just worried sick. Plus, she’s a legal secretary − her bosses are probably telling her to do this.”

  “But even if all this goes away,” Ehrlich continued, “we won’t be rushing the archdiocesan scholarships. You’ll have to rebuild your reputation first. Besides, it’s not a good time for too much diversity. After the Ferguson riots, people are nervous.”
/>   White people were nervous. Colin hung up fuming at the bias, but too worried about making it to the police station to indulge the anger. In this kind of weather his old Honda took a good five minutes to start. At the top of the highway ramp he had to slam on the brakes − an accident had closed all lanes but one. For ten minutes he inched forward. When he finally cleared the log jam, he floored the car and sped until he reached his exit. A block from the station he dropped to the speed limit and made it with one minute to spare.

  The room he was ushered in to had a smart screen, a scratched grey metal table, and four metal folding chairs. No windows. Stale air that smelled of chewing gum and skunk. He paced, trying to walk off a sense of vertigo. The place was so anonymous it could have been an interrogation room anywhere in the world.

  Morganstern came in, her tone and movements brisk. “Have a seat, Father. I’m going to play this straight through, but stop me at any point.”

  “Right.” He stared at the screen, waiting for the laptop to power up. One of the fluorescent overhead lights flickered, and Colin felt seasick. A headache pushed against his skull like a strongman shoving walls apart. He took a deep breath and tried not to care that Morganstern’s sweater was hanging unevenly, one button off.

  The black opening frame showed one word, in white Old-English script: ‘Revelation’. Below it, in smaller print, were three numbers: ‘5: 2-4’. Colin’s forehead scrunched as he tried to remember chapter five in the Book of Revelation. He could conjure a swirl of images − the four horsemen, angels and locusts, a red dragon curling his thick tail around the stars and hurling them to earth − but no particular chapters, no words.

  “It’s a Biblical verse, right?” Morganstern asked. “I looked it up but I still don’t have the slightest idea what it means.”

  “You’re ahead of me,” he admitted. “I can’t even remember the passage. I can see Philip loving its bizarre imagery, though.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “The Torah makes a whole lot more sense, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” She pressed ‘Play’ again.

  More print on the next frame. ‘Introduction here. Map. School. Foundation crumbling’.