Nick’s peers don’t seem broken up over his absence. Concerned maybe. I can see it in their wizened expressions when they talk about him. They congregate and whisper and search for symbolism. What does it mean, this vanishing boy? Are things unsafe? Should I be planning my escape as well? Probably they ask themselves these questions. And as soon as they see the cop car appear on school grounds the morning after his disappearance, the big question is asked, and it’s one I hear more than a few times: Do you think Nick killed that girl?
Officer Jerome and his partner walk the campus with their slow, heavy strides, accompanied by Rollie and Louise. They jot the occasional note in their pads. Students who pass the foursome regard them with unnerving awe. It’s lunchtime when the officers finish with my father; he meets me on my way to the dining hall with both cops in tow. They want to speak with me next, Rollie says. There’s hardly cause for a search warrant, he tells me. But this doesn’t mean we can’t volunteer some of Nick’s possessions if it’ll help them find the kid.
“Search through Nick’s things,” my father advises, “and give them whatever they want.”
“Should we be contacting a lawyer?” I ask.
The Old Man shakes his head at this suggestion. Then he turns from me and the cops and makes his way towards the dining hall. After a few seconds, he calls over his shoulder, to no one in particular, that we’re all here to cooperate.
I escort the police into Nick’s room, which I proceed to search under their supervision. The older officer, Bagley, takes out a plastic bag for evidence. He asks me a series of questions about Nick: his mood the night of his disappearance; anything he might’ve said or done that could be useful; any altercations between me Nick, or perhaps between Nick and another student; what I might’ve known or suspected about his relationship with Nicole D’Ambrosio. My answer for each question is concise and probably unhelpful.
I ransack Nick’s closet and dresser. I strip his bed and overturn his mattress and rifle through old shoe boxes filled with papers and personal effects. A few letters seem to interest Jerome, so he asks me to put them in the plastic bag. They also collect a hardbound yearbook from a former school, a 5X7 framed photo of Nick sitting at the base of the Samuel Adams monument, and a few odds and ends. No white gold Tiffany’s ring is found.
“Is any of this helpful?” I ask.
“We’ll know soon enough,” says Bagley.
“We connect the pieces,” says Jerome, “and see which ones fit, which ones don’t, and which ones are missing.”
Next up, says Bagley, is to find out the nature of Nick’s relationship with Nicole D’Ambrosio.
“That’s exactly what’s next,” says Jerome. “When’s lunch over?”
Throughout the early afternoon, a series of informal interviews are conducted with a few of the Homer House boys as well as others who know Nick or have class with him. The officers use the therapy lounge, and together, with Rollie in attendance, interview one after another. By the time they leave - they question close to two dozen students - the school’s energy has changed. So many faces no longer appear weathered with anxiety; they now seem fixed with a sullenness ripped from a Depression-era photo.
After dinner, the Old Man takes the podium. He looks hungover. Straightening his glasses, he addresses the room:
“The police are on our side. So please continue to show them your cooperation. We all appreciate it. By now, all of you know about Nick Russo. We’re doing what we can to assure his safe return. If you know of anything that could help, please let us know. As far as his relationship with…with the girl…well, not much has been revealed. Again, if anyone has something to say…”
He stops talking. No one else speaks. It seems unclear if he’s offering an opportunity for someone to say something right then and there, or if he’s finished with his remarks. The silence carries on and he returns to his seat. After a few moments, he stands up again, remembering the evening ritual he temporarily forgot:
“Dining hall is excused.”
. . .
Dr. Nussbaum doesn’t have to go out of his way to find me on my weekend off. I’m napping during the hot, late afternoon when he knocks on my door. He enters with a blithe expression as though I should’ve been ready and expecting him rather than groggy and sticky from the summer’s heat. He asks for a glass of water and then moves into the TV room.
“Let me guess,” I said, filling a clean glass under the tap, “poker championship tonight and I’m invited to keep score.”
When I bring him the water, he’s sitting comfortably, his hands folded behind his head. He thanks me for the drink, takes a sip, and sets it on the floor by his feet; after a moment, he smiles and tells me he’s being nosy by checking on me.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. You’re here, aren’t you? Working, eating, talking, surviving. I know you’re fine. Shit, most of us are fine.”
“Hell, if that’s true, you’ll be out of a job before you know it.”
“Speaking of jobs, how’re you feeling about yours?”
Blase, I tell him. Then I add ephemeral. Then confounded. His eyes glance upwards as though my words have precariously stacked themselves in the atmosphere and might tumble at any moment. Then, when he doesn’t respond right away, I add a trite and meaningless coda:
“It is what it is.”
“Because your father and I were recently discussing a few things. We’re wondering if you might get more involved.”
“Involved with what?”
Most of the staff are major contributors, he explains, mentioning Amber’s weekly book group and Tennille’s almost daily jazzercise classes and Dave’s comic book club and Carrie’s wind instrument workshops. He goes on and on, touting the eclecticism of the faculty, their commitment, their generosity.
“Rollie and I were thinking about what you could offer.”
“Maybe I can do something with time travel. Build a time machine with the kids, show them how it’s possible to go back in time.”
Nussbaum, taking a sip of water, appears accepting of my sarcasm. He wipes his mouth with his hand and allows me to continue.
“After all, I did. Sans the time machine, of course. But I did seem to go back in time, didn’t I? I mean, I move away from this place, get an education, a job, a wife, a home; then one day I wake up to find that I’m living in the fucking Homer House with Cliff and Cal and Albert and the rest of the gang.”
Not missing a beat, Nussbaum says he and my father already have something in mind for me. A writers group. It makes sense, he says: I’m a writer. And, a lot of students show promise in this area. The campus is bursting with songwriters and poets; one student, Nussbaum tells me, has even begun a novel about a blind man who plans a bank heist.
“It’ll hardly be a stretch, Gray,” he adds, handing me his empty glass before we make our way towards the door. “You’re already teaching English.”
“If you can call it that.”
“You might find it one hell of an experience. And I know it’ll please Rollie. It’ll be one less thing for him to worry about.”
“This is what he’s worried about? Me not having enough extra-curricular activities? He’s got a murder victim, a runaway, a police investigation, and throngs of fucked up kids and irate parents, and you’re telling me that my sparse schedule is keeping him up at night?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Gray.”
“Well, then I can’t decide if I’m honored or just fucking mystified.”
We step outside into the hot sunshine. The air is still and heavy. A trio of girls walk by the Homer House singing an old Motown song. The campus is otherwise quiet under the stifli
ng summer heat. Nussbaum puts his hand out to me, which I accept. I do this, not knowing if I’m entering into some type of gentleman’s agreement for this writers group.
“You should get off campus and enjoy your time,” he tells me. “It’s important to have an adventure here and there.”
Then he takes a step towards me and puts his hand on the back of my head.
“For the record, you didn’t just wake up one day and find yourself in the Homer House. There was a series of events that led to that. When you’re ready - if you’re ever ready - let me know, and we can discuss it. I know it’s on Rollie’s mind a lot lately.”
He leaves me with what must be one hell of a dumbfounded expression. I can sense it. My lips are pursed to the side and I’m flaring my nostrils and squinting. It’s an SOS to no one. A nonverbal gesture that signifies the very question I posed just moments ago: How is it that the Old Man, who at the moment has more burdens to contend with than ever before in his life, has possibly found the time to think about and worry about and talk about his fully grown son?
. . .
The absence of mail and phone calls has reinforced my new life at the Hundred Acre School. I’ve unofficially been given expatriate status. With the exception of my paycheck, there’s never a thing in my mailbox, which is located in the school’s main office. So when I receive an envelope addressed to Grayson Loveland in plain, somewhat crooked print, and containing no return address, I’m taken aback. No one from my old life, except for Ben, even knows I’ve relocated.
What makes the most sense, of course, is Laura. There wouldn’t be much detective work involved in her tracking me down. It’s possible she still has some loose ends to tie up with me - maybe some additional legal documents for me to sign. But the writing on the face of the envelope is clearly not from her hand. With a strange sense of excitement, I rush back to my place and tear it open. Inside are a few photos of a pretty young blonde girl with dark blue eyes. One of the pictures is a school photo, the girl posing against a white backdrop, her smile, though lovely, is a bit forced. Another is of her lounging by a pool in a black bikini, sunglasses atop her head, pulling her hair away from a tanned, unsmiling face. The last one shows the girl sitting on a blanket in the middle of a dense wilderness. Her feet are together and her legs are open; she isn’t wearing any clothes. She’s looking up at the photographer with a blank expression. It’s this last photo that has a short message scribbled on its back in bubbly red ink. Dear Nick, it reads, A little something for those quiet moments. No sharing!
Without pause, I make my way to my father’s house. Handing him the envelope, I inform him of its anonymous sender. With no questions asked, he pulls out the photos and examines them; before even turning the lurid one over to read its subtle come-on, he quietly muses what I of course already know:
“Nicole D’Ambrosio.”
. . .
I recall one of the first writing courses I took in college where the professor, Dr. Eloise Buttrick, a solitary woman with a haggard look and a foul disposition, would regularly state her mantra to the class with the subtle and perfectly honed didacticism that suggested she had believed in her maxim and thought it wise and clever: “A fact is an anchor, a truth is a sail,” she would say. The context of this statement would be vague, which suggested she felt it would suffice for any occasion as long as it pertained to the act of writing. Buttrick had probably long before surrendered the notion that she be linear or lucid in her teaching. Her erudition and years of experience would have allowed her this latitude, which came at the expense of her students.
The metaphor nevertheless stuck with me through the years. It might be one of the few moments from my studies I ever employed in my life as a journalist. So now I use it again at the Hundred Acre School for my writers workshop. It’s what I start with. Standing there in the dining hall, our home-base, looking down at the nine kids who’ve shown up for our first meeting, I need an opening, a foundation, a solid bit of profundity they might buy into. No one asks me to explain. Yet I add how they should aim for nothing but truth telling in their writing, leaving facts to the historians. Then a boy raises his hand and asks if this still applies if they’re interested in writing a memoir.
“I think it does,” I tell him. “To a degree, though.”
One of the girls raises her hand and suggests everyone state their preferred genre, what they wish to get out of the group, and so forth.
There’s Meredith, one of my own students, who’s interested in poetry and gothic fiction. There are two students, Kay and Marilyn, who claim they don’t really write, but enjoy reading other people’s work. There’s Dorian, a skeletal, oblong faced boy who describes his writing as S.J. Perelman-ish with a twist of Penthouse Forum. There’s a boy the others call Booth - short for Boothroid, his last name - who’s written a nearly two-hundred page manifesto that delineates certain intricacies of a particular video game he’s fond of. He’s interested in having it proofread, he states quite proudly. There’s Jess Singer, the boy who’s begun a novel about a blind man planning a bank heist. He claims he’s four chapters in and now lacking direction. There’s Dan Hart, who’s elusive in his purpose. He just acts coolly and says he likes to write. And there’s Adam and Matt, who claim they’re collaborating on a screenplay about the Altamont disaster of 1969. Adam adds that Matt writes poetry and short stories that will “blow your balls off.”
Once these informalities are over, the kids, huddling around the perimeter of two tables pushed together, look to me to see what’s next. I’m tempted to tell them I’m not sure how to articulate what I know about writing - that I’m not even sure what I know. And if I was able to discern what I know, how would I teach it? I want to announce that I’m not a teacher, and that these days, I’m not even really much of a writer.
“Maybe someone can share something they’ve brought with them,” said Meredith, probably sensing my unease. “And we can critique it.”
Dorian volunteers. Flipping open a beaten green notebook he produces from under his chair, he fingers through the pages until he finds the piece he describes as a “fluffy little bit of filth.” He promises it won’t offend anyone, adding that what he’s about to read are the beginning lyrics to a rap song one of his characters will be singing. He reads from the page, affecting a husky rapper inflection: I’m standing in the river, I got the piss shivers, and my nutsack is turning to blue. Like a thousand fire-ants, I’m tryin’ to get inside your pants, and maybe fuck your sister, too.
Some of the boys laugh. Most of the girls roll their eyes and tell Dorian he’s an idiot. One of the non-writers, a Muppet-ish, pocket-size girl named Kay, asks about the character who will be singing these words. Dorian describes him with some authentic details, using words like misogynistic, hulking, primal. Kay considers this for a moment before she begins her critique.
“I liked it. But I’m just not sure how believable it is. I mean, if they’re in a river, chances are, the girl - the object of desire - probably won’t have pants on to begin with.”
Without missing a beat, Booth, in as sincere a delivery as any sad teenager could muster, says he was thinking the same exact thing. Then he asks a series of unrelated questions - all toxically boring - on mechanics. He asks about semicolons and verb tenses and prepositions. The kids look to me for the answers. As I give them, Booth hurriedly scribbles in the margins of his manuscript. We move on to Meredith, who’s just finished a short story about a young woman who develops an obsession with touring the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum. Her character, a twenty-something named Rory, ends up selling her possessions and forfeiting her life to live vicariously through the icon. Meredith asks about the character’s development, the story’s plausibility, and whether her ending appears forced. All good questions. And some mostly useful responses from her peers. Except for some encoura
ging nods, I offer very little. They seem satisfied with this arrangement.
Dan Hart, sitting properly, and minding his own business, suddenly becomes the group’s focus. Kay announces that he’s written some song lyrics, which must be shared - they’re that good, she adds. The other kids encourage Dan to open his binder and read aloud his newest tune. With his head cocked back and his hands folded across his stomach, Dan says he’s not in the mood; besides, he casually mentions, they’re not that good. Adam swipes the binder and asks if he can read them. Dan says he doesn’t care. With Kay’s help, Adam locates the page and reads, affecting a full, formal tone:
You look so good when you’re down and out
Like a full moon does in May
But tell me what you mean when you look at me and shout
That tomorrow cancels off today
Your queens and jokers are ruling your deck
You’ve lost each one of your kings
You say they were damaged, weak, and a wreck
And you’re looking for a man who sings
He’s asked who the “you” refers to. And what he means in the third and fourth lines. And, most importantly, if he’s the “man who sings.” His answers are vague. But never self-important.
The conversation soon veers from Dan’s song to Nicole D’Ambrosio. Booth asks Dan if he’s having nightmares about the evening he found the girl’s body. Dan shrugs.
“I heard her parents were on campus meeting with Rollie,” said Jess.
“They probably think it’s some conspiracy by the student body,” said Adam. “Fucking elitists.”
“Their daughter was murdered,” Meredith points out in a steady but vexed tone.
Arguments ensue over the next few moments. Was the girl raped? Were drugs involved? Will the cops contrive evidence to target the Hundred Acre School?
Everybody’s Out There Page 18