A Circumstance of Blood

by Jeannette Batz Cooperman

  “Mrs. Portel? It’s Colin McAvoy, at Matteo Academy. I wondered if we could speak for a moment? I’ve been informed that you plan to sue the school.”

  “Yes, I do. My Steven will be traumatised for life after what he’s been through. He’ll need therapy and pills and it will take years for him to recover. I’ve read all about PTSD. And he’s already fragile, you know that. You should have had more security there, Father. You promised to take care of my son!” Her voice had risen to a shrill.

  “And to the very best of my ability I’m continuing to do so,” Colin said, measuring every word. “Believe me, if I could have saved Steven the trauma of what happened, I would have done so. In any case, you have a perfect right to sue us. The school itself has no real financial assets, but once we close I’m sure the archdiocese will sell the property and be able to pay any money the courts award you.”

  “You think this is just about money, don’t you? I’m managing just fine. It’s the principle. My son came to harm there. Maybe legal action can save other boys from a similar fate.”

  Those words came straight from an attorney, he thought. Whether she thinks so or not, this is definitely about money.

  “You shouldn’t be running a school,” she finished, “if you’re careless enough to let something like this happen under your watch.”

  He exhaled in a gust. “I don’t know how any school could prevent something this random, Mrs. Portel. I just wanted to let you know that I do not take this matter lightly, and I have done everything in my power to make sure his world stays as stable as possible. The archdiocese’s lawyers won’t want me communicating with you at all, so I wanted us to have a chance to talk before they forbid it.”

  “You can’t change my mind,” she warned, but already she sounded marginally calmer, which was probably the best he could hope for. “I’m doing what I feel I have to do,” she added, on the defensive now.

  “That’s all any of us can do,” he said gently, and hung up.

  Her words rang in his head. Shouldn’t be running a school. Careless. My son came to harm there. And he had come to harm, and Philip had lost his life. What dream was worth that?

  Matteo was just an elaborate construct anyway, a sociology experiment in class-mixing. Maybe nobody did it this way for good reason. What did he know? He’d never run a school before. And he was doing a hell of a job − one boy dead, others terrified, a brilliant teacher unhinged . . .

  He slid down in his chair, thoughts darker by the minute. Twice his cell rang; both times he let it go. Finally he pulled himself upright and glanced at the clock. A little before 5 p.m. He’d better go see how badly they’d fared on Fox News.

  *

  Philip’s emails were a mix of poetic flights and sarcastic jibes, but Sarah saw nothing that looked remotely like a drug deal. The email about Colin McAvoy’s debut was a response to a query from Philip, and the St. Louis Symphony’s publications manager had attached the original press release. “Promising new talent . . . piano prodigy from the Scottish Highlands . . . trained at Juilliard . . . talk of a world tour.” The date was February 12, 1994 − two years before she’d met him. He must have entered the priesthood that spring. And he’d never said a word.

  Philip had tagged the email for a folder named Project. She sorted to find all the Project emails and skimmed their addresses: slu.edu, the LexisNexis news service, the Jesuit province, a few business addresses, Matteo Academy addresses. Was all this for the mashup? She skimmed every email. One was computer-generated, giving him a password for SLU’s alumni database. Several were articles from old magazines and newspapers, emailed from a library database. Eighteen were to or from Adriana.

  In the early emails, Philip sounded almost tentative, and Adriana responded with warm encouragement, telling him creativity required courage. There were discussions of books and films, startlingly deep and unpredictable insights from Philip, advice from Adriana about what to read or see next. Over time the exchanges grew warmer, even tender, Philip addressing her as ‘Adri’. She stayed formal, but wrote fervently about his creativity and intelligence.

  When Sarah reached the last line of the last email Philip had sent Adriana, it pulled her up short. ‘Don’t forget. We have a secret, too.’

  The date was a week before his death.

  She hadn’t replied.

  *

  Oblivious to the kids around him, Colin slammed off the boxy old TV in the common room and stalked out. This day just couldn’t get any better. And now he had to face Philip’s father.

  He walked down to the music room and stuck his head in the door. “Grant’s coming to get Philip’s things. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do this with me? He’s as stiff as I am. Neither one of us is going to know what to say.”

  “There is no right thing to say,” Jimmy pointed out. “But yeah, sure, I’ll come.”

  Colin’s phone beeped, Connie texting that Mr. Grant had arrived. As they walked with him to the dorm, Colin made a few stabs at sympathetic small talk. Was he sleeping okay? Able to take any time off work? When they reached Philip’s room Jimmy took over smoothly, keeping up a low patter while Grant, his lips pressed tight, packed prints, albums, and drawings. As Jimmy praised the boy’s intelligence, talent and wit, Colin listened with awe. Jimmy hadn’t even liked Philip, yet his words were exactly what a father would need to hear. Grant’s face, held rigid when he arrived, began to relax. Methodically he stacked textbooks to give away, kept term papers, discarded the comic books with a grimace. Good thing Jimmy had taken the worst of the magazines out of the mix.

  When he reached the dresser’s messy drawers of underwear, T-shirts, and never-worn pyjamas, Grant’s hands slowed. But he managed to discard anything worn or stained and pack the rest into a box. ‘St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop’, he printed on the side, the fine line of ink from his Mont Blanc fountain pen indenting faint, spidery letters on the cardboard.

  Straightening, he walked to the closet and stood there a long time, hands at his sides, fingers clenching and loosening. Finally he reached in and tugged at a flouncy purple cuff. He held it up for a few seconds, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, then dropped it. “What am I supposed to do with all this? Give it to the theatre department?”

  Colin had actually thought of that, but the bitterness in Grant’s voice told him it wasn’t an option. Jimmy pried open a deeper cardboard box. “Leave it to us, Mr. Grant. We’ll box these things up and take them with the rest. Someone will find good use for them.”

  Grant nodded. “Very well then.” He picked up his box of keepsakes. “Thank you.”

  After he left, the room felt changed, almost hollow, despite all the stuff still piled on the bed. Jimmy pulled more clothes from hangers and tossed them on to the bed. “We were too easy on Philip,” he said abruptly.

  Colin, who’d been struggling with a paisley shirt too silky to stay put, let it fall. “You mean I was too easy.”

  A one-shoulder shrug carried the attitude. “You liked him.”

  “I think I was fair. I didn’t do anything for Philip I wouldn’t have done for any of the other kids.”

  “It’s not about fairness. He wasn’t like the other kids. He had a mind that got drunk on freedom. He stopped knowing his place.”

  The paisley shirt slid from Colin’s hands again. “His place?”

  “A kid like that needs structure, not freedom. He needs to know what’s allowed and what’s forbidden and where he fits.”

  “You sound like Stan,” Colin said, stung into taking a few shots of his own. “You had structure at that age, and you rebelled against it.”

  “I had a few wild years,” Jimmy said levelly. “But I came back to structure with the priesthood, and that’s when my life started to make sense. Philip was all about himself, floating into anything that could get him some attention.”

  “You’re telling me giving him more structure would have kept him alive?

  �
��We’ll never know. But it might have.”

  *

  Dinner that night was comfort food, a crusty, well-browned pot roast, so tender inside the meat fell apart, surrounded by carrots and buttery new potatoes sprinkled with rosemary. Sarah took a generous helping and turned to Colin. “So how’d you do on TV?”

  “Was it on?” Jimmy asked. “You didn’t tell me!”

  “They only used one line, me saying we were doing everything we could for the students.”

  “Great,” she said. “The less attention the better.”

  “They only used one line,” Colin repeated grimly, “because they had also interviewed Luke. Who said the police were all over the school and were even grilling Father McAvoy.”

  Not good. So not good, she couldn’t think of anything consoling to say. Jimmy managed a rueful, “No wonder you didn’t mention it.”

  Colin wasn’t talking about his trip to the police station either, Sarah noticed. Switching the subject, she asked about Graham’s grades, how he reacted to correction or challenge. Charron’s eyes darkened. “You’re not going to get anywhere psychoanalysing this boy. Call it what you like, there’s darkness at work in him.”

  Colin sighed. “It’s called human nature, Francis. The question remains, what’s he capable of?”

  “Has he formed a single friendship?” Charron asked. “Does he interact with the others at all?”

  “He shoots pool with a few of the kids,” Jimmy offered.

  “Hang on,” Sarah interrupted. “There’s a pool table here?”

  “Basement of the dorm.”

  “And you didn’t tell me? Don’t you remember all those nights we went over to Humphrey’s to shoot pool?”

  “It scarred me for life. You managed to nudge me out of position every time I had a decent shot.”

  “No way. I am the least competitive person in the world. You, however, managed to cough or start talking right when I was about to shoot.”

  “You two do realise you’re competing about who’s not competitive?” Colin inquired mildly.

  Charron shoved back his chair with a single angry scrape. “You’ll take this seriously soon enough. You’ll have no choice.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The pool table was in a musty room with two uncurtained casement windows, dark as a creature’s eyes. A naked light bulb over the table cast a circle of yellow light, leaving the corners in shadow, and the string pull dangled so low Sarah had to brush it out of her way when she took a practice shot. Jimmy had his stick propped on the table’s edge, and he was gliding it back and forth, angling it down then straight ahead.

  “You break,” she told him, impatient to begin.

  The cue ball hit with the crack of a shotgun, and the balls scattered wide, but none sank. Sarah claimed stripes, and they worked into a steady back-and-forth rhythm, each sinking a ball on their first shot and missing on their second. When there was only one striped ball left on the table, she bent for a long shot. “How’s your grandfather?” she asked, eyes on the centre of her target.

  “As well as can be expected. And thank you very much.” She’d missed the pocket by an inch, and the cue ball had landed diagonal from the seven, setting Jimmy up perfectly for the side pocket.

  “I figured you deserved an easy shot for coming down here to play with me.”

  “Yeah?” With tiny, deliberate circles, he spun his stick inside the blue cube of chalk.

  She waited until he lined up his next shot. “I was worried about Seamus,” she said. “Adriana said you’d missed class to go to his deathbed.”

  Jimmy sank the seven with a satisfying plunk, grinned, and hunched close to the table, angling his stick to take a tricky corner shot. “He’s a tough old bastard. He’ll take his time dying. I went to bail out his nurse. She had a family emergency, and I told her I’d cover for her. Thought maybe it would give us some private time and we could finally connect a little.”

  She exhaled, her muscles limp with relief. “How’d it go?”

  “The man doesn’t connect. Told me I’d get my share of his money and to stop palaverin’.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She was, too. Those dinners had been miserable, and Jimmy used to try a lot harder than he let on. She’d always known how badly he wanted the old man’s approval. She’d known, too, that he’d never get it.

  Guard down, she missed the next two shots. Then she called the corner pocket and sank the eight ball. “Yesssssssssss!” She grinned at him. “You’ll forgive me, right?”

  “Never. That would take the fun out of it.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go get something written.”

  “Actually I thought I’d talk to Graham Dennison, see if I can press anything more out of him.”

  The grooves in Jimmy’s forehead deepened. “I’d tell you not to, but it’d only make you more determined. Promise you’ll be careful.”

  “I swear it.”

  *

  No going into the dorm alone, Colin had said. Well, she wasn’t alone. Boys clogged the third-floor hallway, and the air was thick with old sweat and the toasty smell of passed gas. Involuntarily Sarah wrinkled her nose, then caught herself as Luke walked by in long shorts, five-panel cap on backwards, holding a skateboard. “He looks like he’s in California,” she told Max, who’d come up alongside her. “Where does he skate around here?”

  “Down the hill.”

  “In the dark? In winter?”

  “Like a boss.”

  “I can’t believe Colin lets him!”

  Max looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure Father Mac knows.”

  “Got it. Okay, I’ll keep quiet.” She was rewarded with a thumbs-up as Max walked away. “But it’ll be on my conscience forever if he cracks his head open,” she called after him.

  “He won’t,” Max hollered back. “He’s seriously good.”

  At the end of the hall she braced herself, then knocked on Graham’s door. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “My sums are done.” Graham had a way of sounding like a Julian Fellowes character, a class above and a few decades behind. “Would you care to come in?”

  She would not. “How about a walk? I need to take Simon.”

  “Sure. We’ll take the bridle path. Nobody rides this time of year.”

  After picking up Simon, they set out across the lawn, Graham heading straight for the thickest part of the woods. Jimmy was right, Sarah told herself. This was a bad idea. It was pitch dark, and they’d soon be out of anyone’s sight. Simon was trotting next to her, oblivious, and she gave his curly black head a furtive pat. Surely he’d at least bark if she needed help? As she caught up to Graham, a shrill, almost mechanical racket came from one of the trees. Starlings, flocking together for safety in the dark.

  The path forked again and again, and Graham chose without hesitating. He must walk these paths often. On both sides bare branches clawed at them like skeleton hands, and in the distance an owl hooted. Finally they emerged into a moonlit clearing. With the trees’ long shadows dancing on silvery grass, the place felt almost enchanted. A good place to stay a minute and talk. But before Sarah had a chance to suggest it, Graham tunnelled into black woods again.

  It was deathly quiet, the only sound his feet snapping twigs. Even Simon seemed subdued now, more tentative than normal. Wildly, she thought of turning and running. Graham would catch her easily. Worst case, she told herself, he kills me. Dead, she’d feel nothing at all. Colin, on the other hand, would feel miserably guilty for the rest of his life, which cheered her considerably.

  Maybe a quarter-mile later, the path came out of the woods and ran alongside the well-lit market road. A long, relieved breath whistled through Sarah’s nostrils. Slowing her steps, she put a hand on Graham’s arm, forcing him to slow with her. “Look, you’ve gone over your life with at least a dozen professionals. Therapists, doctors, principals, priests. So what don’t they understand?”

  “I’ve st
opped giving a flying fuck what people don’t understand.”

  “Fair enough. But do you ever doubt yourself?”

  “Yeah. I doubt myself whenever I do what everybody expects me to do. Play nice. Ask questions when I already know the answers. Pretend to be worried when I know I can handle it.”

  She stayed silent, waiting.

  “As for your book, I saw the other one online. I haven’t murdered anyone, despite what Father McAvoy might think.”

  “Something tells me you enjoy being a suspect though.”

  “It beats being weak and helpless.”

  After they’d walked a little farther he turned back into the woods, choosing a narrow, twisty path that forked several times before it widened again. The air was cold and clear, and Sarah swung along with a looser stride. Then Graham stopped short.

  She stopped too, her heart beating faster. After all those forks, she didn’t have a clue where they were. If he tried to attack . . .

  “Your dog’s taking a leak,” he said.

  Behind her Simon was wobbling on one leg, the lead stretched taut. “Oh. Thanks.” She took a step backward and waited while he finished. Get a grip, she warned herself.

  “Let’s sit a while,” she suggested, pointing to an old wooden bench at the next fork. Without bothering to answer, Graham walked to the bench and sat down. Looping the handle of Simon’s lead around the toe of one sneaker, Sarah turned sideways so she could watch Graham’s face, then cast about for the right question.

  “You keep your feelings in pretty tight check, don’t you?” she tried.

  “It’s called self-control. My parents’ clients never had it.”

  The bitterness in his voice tightened her throat. She turned away for a second and glanced up at the moon. It was in the only phase she hated, so close to full it looked misshapen. Gibbous. Even the word was ugly. She always had to remind herself that the moon stayed whole and round; the shadow was the illusion.

  Neither of them spoke, and the silence was strangely easy. Something was nagging at Sarah though, and she let her brain range over everything he’d said, trying to remember what idea it had sparked.