At seven, the morning bells rang. The orphans, accustomed to the daily schedule, roused from their bunks, padded off to the lavatories, then returned to their rooms to dress. The morning attendants supervised it all from key positions in the hallways, counting heads and urging the boys not to dally. It was another routine morning. No one seemed to be missing. Nicky also heard the bells. He awoke with a start, realizing that this was the moment when they would come for him. He hunched deeper into the cubbyhole, drawing his knees up to his chest and pulling the chair farther inside to hide his presence.
At eight, classes began. No one was looking for Nicky. The reason was simple enough. Les always took him at this time. It was their morning hour together, the time when they went into the garden to read stories. The schedule she had so carefully prepared, retained this timeslot, but the attendant assigned to fill-in called in sick. No one thought to take her place.
By nine, hearing neither footsteps nor calls for his name, Nicky once again relaxed. He was hungry. He remembered the candy Les often produced from somewhere in her desk whenever she brought him to her office for consolation. He pushed the chair back and crawled out of his hiding place to stand. A ray of sunlight came through the windows behind the desk. It reflected off the cabinet on the other side of the office where several footy balls, trophies from the days when Nigel led Saint Malachy’s to the city finals, were displayed behind a locked glass façade. Nicky climbed up onto the chair and began opening the desk drawers one by one. The candy, several bars of chocolate, was in a side drawer. He took one and quickly unwrapped it, thrusting its delicious contents into his mouth. It was consumed in an instant and he took another.
He sat in the big chair, chewing and surveying the office with growing confidence. He studied the pictures on the wall for a moment then turned his attention to the things on Les’ desk. He was familiar with most of them; a stapler, several pens and pencils, a calendar, although he could not read it nor understand what it was for, a ruler and a green box filled with papers. A gold pen interested him and he picked it up, turning it in his hand. Soon, he tired of the pen, but he did not put it down as he lifted his eyes to the cabinet with the footy balls. He recognized their shape and size and he knew what they were for. Many times Les had scolded him when he sat on the floor of the office, smudging the glass that protected the balls with his fingers while he waited for her to finish what she was doing and take him on her lap to read. In truth, he was trying to get at the balls, but the glass doors would not open. He couldn’t get inside to touch the playthings, so he pushed on the glass in a fruitless attempt. He decided to do it again.
With the gold pen still in his hand, he slipped off the chair, came around the desk and dropped onto the rug in front of the cabinet. He placed his hands on the glass and pushed without success, frustrated that this one time, when Les wasn’t there to chastise him, he still couldn’t get inside to touch the objects of his desire. Eventually, he forgot his fear of discovery and began hitting the cabinet, driving his palms into the glass with increasing force, but again, to no avail. He became more frustrated as the vibrating pressure of each slam stung his fingertips where he held the pen.
He almost gave up, but the pen gave him an idea. It was made of metal and had a sharp point. He turned the instrument in his hand, thinking hard about how it might help him. A thought emerged and he acted on it quickly. With all the strength he could muster, he reared back and brought the point down into the center of the glass. It shattered at the spot where the pen made impact. He was startled by the sound, even as his wrist scraped along the jagged edge, opening a series of deep cuts. Blood oozed out, but he felt little pain as he let the pen fall to the floor and studied the tennis ball sized hole he’d successfully made. It did not occur to him that the hole wasn’t large enough to pull the footy balls out.
He reached inside to touch the closest ball, blue and white with big letters he could not read. The jagged opening was just large enough to admit one hand, which he recklessly used to coax the ball off its perch, but that was all he could accomplish. He brought his hand back out and picked up the pen again. This time he clutched it tight and got to his knees for leverage. He lifted his bloody hand high over his head and rammed pen and fist into the glass a second time. The entire façade gave way as his wrist came down again on the sharpest points of broken glass protruding from the bottom edge. There was no way to stop the momentum before the razor-like edges sliced through the veins that delivered fast moving blood to his fingers. The red liquid spurted out in front of his eyes, momentarily stunning the little boy as he tried to understand what happened.
It hurt, but not so much that he couldn’t keep from realizing that the blood, now staining the rug, would be cause for another reprimand. He dabbed at the growing pool with his other hand then gave up when he realized that the spurting from his wrist must be stopped. He covered the wound with his palm, pressing hard in an attempt to hold the blood back. All thoughts of retrieving the footy balls left him as he looked down at the stained rug and tried to decide what to do. He squeezed harder. The blood would not stop.
Nicky panicked. His wrist throbbed, blood flowed in concert with the beat of his heart, but he only feared discovery. Glass littered the floor at his knees. He turned to look back at the desk and its cubbyhole, representing the only safety near. With determination and all the strength that remained in his little boy limbs, he began to crawl over the rug and onto the wooden floor, leaving a trail of rich purple in his wake. His damaged wrist no longer hurt. His hand below the wound was blue and useless, the arm numb. Eventually, he made it around the desk and with one last burst of effort, edged into the opening. Then he turned, grasped the leg of Les’ chair with his good hand and pulled it in behind him.
He tried desperately to stem the flow of blood that ran down his hand, staining his pajamas. It was no use. He was growing sleepy. He gave up and curled into a fetal position, his eyelids so heavy that he could not keep them from drooping. Blood continued to flow onto the floor beneath the desk, but it no longer frightened him as his breathing slowed. After fifteen minutes, darkness overtook his brain, bringing consciousness to an end. An hour later, Nicky Aldridge found eternal deliverance from the tortures of his short life.
Sixty-Two
Seventy-five partiers occupied the downstairs rooms of the house when Ellis led the way inside. This did not include the members of each band, an additional twenty-five, scattered about talking and laughing. Jimmy spotted Kate in a corner with the same beau who had come to take her away in Chicago. Ted was in another corner with Melinda and Eugene. Sonny and Marsha stood, drinks in hand, to the side of an entryway that appeared to lead to a massive kitchen. They looked up and waved, beckoning Jimmy over. He nodded and touched Ellis’ shoulder, pointing in their direction. They crossed the room, shedding Travis, who hustled up a grand staircase to the second floor.
Sonny shared a look with Ellis as they approached. Jimmy saw it and made the connection. It was one of those knowing looks he’d seen many times in the past when his drinking threatened a performance. There was no point in taking issue so he let it go without remark. Barely in the house for a minute and all he wanted to do was leave. He still had a half-full bottle in the cupboard back at the townhouse.
Les luxuriated in the shower, letting hot water flow over her back and limbs. She’d finished lathering and thoroughly washed her hair. Now, she let the water rinse and refresh her body. The concert was over. She missed it. Cindy wasn’t due to pick her up for another thirty minutes, plenty of time to get ready to see Jimmy. She thought about Nicky and the orphanage. It was early afternoon in Melbourne. Apart from her heightened desire to bring Jimmy home to Melbourne, she thought constantly of this child, her child now in every way but the birthing. Home, she thought to herself. She’d never thought of Melbourne as home, not even when she converted her work visa to full citizenship. Dual citizenship, America was always the country she called home. Now, with two all-consuming loves and
the vision of a life together as a family, she embraced the land ‘down under’ as her own.
***
The discovery that Nicky Aldridge was missing came at ten-thirty when he failed to appear for his reading class with Sister Monica. The attendant, who had called in sick, was to have escorted him to her classroom after snack time. Sister Monica was also the Assistant Superintendent of Saint Malachy’s, a long-time confidant of Sister Marie’s, who would have taken charge had Les not been elevated to that role. That mattered little to the nun. She took no pleasure in administrative work. She preferred to teach. Still, she was in charge until Leslie Marshall returned from America. So, she dutifully placed her class in the hands of a young lay teacher and went in search of Nicky.
First, she went to the duty station and queried the supervisor. She was informed that one of the attendants was out sick. Yes, this was an oversight. The absent woman’s rounds should have been assigned to another and, no, no one had reported Nicky missing.
Sister Monica became mildly concerned. She had read Leslie’s schedule, taken note of the boy’s problems and kept a lookout for him when it was time for him to report to her classroom. With two hundred boys to account for, she understood that one might go missing for a short while, but Nicky was very young and beset with emotional challenges. She went directly to his dormitory room. It was empty.
After an hour of searching every square inch of the main building and scouring the outside grounds, her alarm became acute. She returned to the duty station and had all of the attendants summoned for an emergency meeting. This entailed a lockdown, which was rarely put in place at Saint Malachy’s. The summons immediately enacted the emergency protocols that all orphanage employees were required to know by heart. As the attendants headed for the duty station, lay teachers and administrators took positions at all entrances and exits. Other employees consulted age group schedules and quickly corralled all of the boys wherever they happened to be at that moment. From then onward the boys were not permitted to move from their rooms, or outside locations as headcounts were taken. Meanwhile, Sister Monica addressed the assembled attendants. She explained the nature of the emergency and sternly questioned each attendant one by one. As the questioning continued, the headcount reports came in, couriered by trustworthy boys dispatched from each section. Sister Monica studied each list as it arrived, carefully scanning the names for Nicky. It took forty-five minutes for all of the lists to be delivered. One hundred and ninety nine names, no Nicky Aldridge. Sister Monica sent each courier back to his section with explicit instructions. “The lockdown remains, no one is to leave his present location for any reason until Sister Monica so instructs.” She turned to the ten attendants, standing nervously in front of her.
“Find Nicky Aldridge.” Then she turned away and headed toward the stairs to Leslie’s office to wait.
***
Ellis didn’t like what he saw, either outside around the pool, or inside where excessive alcohol, pot and perhaps something stronger were beginning to spark unruly behavior. The naked girls around the pool with the rough looking men he didn’t know represented only one source of concern. Some of the bikers had come back into the house with joints and open bottles of beer and tequila in their hands. They forced their way among the assorted couples in the main hall. The jostling and outright shoves were met with shouts of protest and even a few scuffles that failed to escalate, thankfully, when the toughs stopped and ominously stared, spoiling for a fight.
Where was Winfield? Where had Nigel disappeared to as well? He searched the room for Blossom’s people, all the members of each band. Rebellion was there, Jimmy’s group, too, and MacGregor. He saw three members of the Riland Brothers Band, but not Randy or Jeff. The Whitehurst contingent was moving en masse outside to the pool, except for Nigel and Travis, but he already knew Travis had gone upstairs, probably to find Randy and Jeff. What’s going on up there? He looked up at the balcony. The roadies were accounted for, except for Chase. He’d be somewhere with Benson who he realized wasn’t there, either. Taking stock of situations came naturally to the deceptively muscular black man. He grew up with trouble always lurking. It was wise to keep track of who was where at all times.
Miles and Felix finished their drinks and retired to their rooms. Miles was concerned about his wife. He should have asked where she was going. Winfield’s party later, but what hotel to pickup Buckman’s girl from Australia? If he knew he’d call her and tell her to skip the party. Felix rarely showed unease. He was definitely uneasy about Marvel Island.
***
When Sister Monica opened the door to Sister Marie’s former office she noticed the broken glass first. Then the soiled carpet and more purplish liquid in splatters and tiny puddles leading to Leslie’s desk. Candy wrappers littered the top of the desk. Someone had entered the office and made a mess, one of the boys most likely. When she learned who it was there would be punishment for sure. That would have to wait.
She crossed the room, intending to call maintenance to come and clean things up. Something caught her eye, a larger pool of dark liquid spread beneath the desk chair. She pulled the chair out, careful not to let its legs slip into the curious puddle. Then she saw a foot, tiny and without socks or shoes. She bent down and peered into the opening. There was the missing boy, curled up and sleeping in a larger pool of liquid, the same one that had spread beneath the desk chair. His nightclothes were soaked and his hands and face were covered in the stuff, not purple like the floor and carpet, but deep red. She nudged Nicky with her hand, careful to avoid touching his wet pajamas. He didn’t move. She nudged him again and called his name. Then the color drained from her face as she realized that the red liquid must be blood. Quickly, she rose up and reached for the phone. She called the duty station and instructed the attendant to send the nurse.
He was gone. The nurse arrived in less than a minute. She knew the moment she saw the enormous amount of blood and touched the cold gray flesh of his face. There was no breath and no pulse. Gently, she took the boy into her arms and lifted him onto the desk. There was a chance that she could restart his heart, but as she examined him further she saw that it was hopeless. She explained the situation to Sister Monica, quivering as she spoke because nothing like this had ever happened at Saint Malachy’s. A child’s life had been lost. Sister Monica took the news stoically. She felt for the boy, but she had no time to become lost in emotion. Her first call was to the city emergency services bureau. Then she contacted the police.
At noon, just as she was finishing her morning session, Sister Marie received a message that her colleague was holding for her on the telephone. It was unusual for Sister Monica to call. She reached for her cane, excused herself and followed a young administrator down the hall to a small office where a telephone waited. She listened with anguish as Sister Monica described what had happened.
“Are you sure he has passed?” she asked, hoping against hope.
“Molly is sure,” Sister Monica answered. “An ambulance is on the way and I’ve called the police.”
Sister Marie recalled the competent nurse she hired a decade before. “I’ll come right away.”
“I have the boys in lockdown.”
“Yes. You mustn’t do anything until the authorities have finished.”
“Marie?”
“Yes?”
“There’s one more matter. Should I notify Leslie in America?”
Sister Marie slumped, putting all her weight on her cane as she thought of the devastating news that would break Leslie’s heart.
“Yes. Call her and tell her she must return to Melbourne as soon as possible, but don’t give her any details and don’t answer any questions.”
***
Les toweled moisture from her body. She was tired, but there would be plenty of time to sleep later after she caught up with her love and brought him back to this room, never to be apart again. She made her decision, he loved her and she loved him. Their future would be together, no matter what
his career required. She would help him to stop drinking then together they would help Nicky to find his way. Adopt the tiny boy? Yes, and build a life in Australia and America if that’s what was necessary for Jimmy to carry-on with his music. Oh, his music, so beautiful! Their life together would be beautiful, too. Nicky, the adopted oldest, accompanied by Buckman children of their own, a family. Yes, a family and her life’s work at Saint Malachy’s. It could be done. They would be happy. She donned a robe and returned to the bathroom to dry her hair.
***
Jimmy made sure to avoid the tables with the bottles of assorted liquors. He knew Ellis and Sonny were watching. He found a clean glass and filled it with soda water. As he turned to rejoin his group, he spotted Benson at the top of the stairs looking at him. The burly drummer smiled knowingly as he nudged Chase who had his arm wrapped around a woman in a tight short skirt. It was Tammy and she was also eying him, but with a furtive expression that seemed to be a silent cry for help. As the three came down the stairs in his direction he turned away, making for the other side of room. Two bikers stepped into his path just as he entered the crowd of dancers in the center of the floor.
The altercation was unnecessary. Jimmy inadvertently bumped one of the bikers, spilling some of his drink on the man’s shirt as he tried to pass. Both bikers turned away from their dance partners. They each had a joint curled in their lips and seemed startled to find one of Blossom’s biggest stars standing in their midst. The untouched biker, not more than twenty, smiled as if honored to be in the presence of The Jim Buckman. But the other man, in his early thirties and aware that something wet had trickled onto the collar of his shirt, did not smile. He took the joint from his lips and gave Jimmy a threatening look. Jimmy tried to continue on, but the burly biker blocked his path.
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