At the end of morning classes one Friday, Birmingham barged from the washroom, hurrying to catch up with Geoff to go to Tim Hortons during lunch break. He had his head down, as usual, and he collided with Ms. Flood, scattering the pile of papers she was carrying. The rush of students leaving class had passed and they were suddenly alone.
They stooped together to pick up the papers. She was wearing a green tunic top over a white t-shirt, and smelled of stale coffee. Birmingham searched for something to say.
I miss listening to you playing the piano.
I miss talking to you.
I miss just seeing you.
Everything he wanted to say to her seemed too lame to say out loud. All he managed was a croaked, “Sorry.”
She said quietly, “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I suppose.”
“Why haven’t you been to the cottage?”
“Winter hasn’t invited me.”
You haven’t invited me.
Amber touched his hand. “I —”
She stopped abruptly, looking up.
Birmingham looked up, too.
Ms. Legate had appeared from nowhere and was standing over them. She asked, “Accident?”
It sounded like an accusation.
“It was my fault,” said Birmingham quickly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He was clutching the papers he’d picked up. “Can I carry these for you, Ms. Flood?”
Ms. Legate said, “Thank you for offering, Birmingham. But no. You can go.”
The principal stood beside Ms. Flood as he scurried away. He felt like a dog who had been scolded but was unsure what it had done wrong. He glanced back once briefly, enough to see Ms. Legate escorting Ms. Flood in the opposite direction, like a jailer with a prisoner.
At the end of classes, he walked out of school with Geoff, whose mother was waiting in her car to take him to his guitar lesson. It was raining steadily and she offered Birmingham a ride home. But he said he liked walking in the rain.
As soon as the car was out of sight, he doubled back and drifted toward the side of the school. He pretended to talk on his cell phone and assumed a distracted air, as if having an important conversation. When he thought no one was looking, he stepped around the corner, out of sight of the departing students and the buses and cars driving away. Driven by a force he couldn’t control, he made his way to the rear entrance. He eased the door open. No one was in sight.
He walked quickly to the music room.
Ms. Flood was at the piano, not playing. Her back was to him, but she knew right away he was there.
She rose quickly and advanced on him, her eyes hard. “Get out. Go away. Now.”
He stumbled across the school playing field.
He picked up a broken hockey stick and slashed at a clump of goldenrod, severing the heads and scattering seeds. He swung at one of the school signs by the road, denting the sign and smashing the stick. Rain was lashing down. He didn’t have a coat but he didn’t care. He swung his foot at a garbage can and sent it rolling down the sidewalk.
A car pulled up beside him.
He kept walking.
He heard, “Birmingham, please . . .”
He glanced back. She was standing beside her car, in the rain.
He snarled over his shoulder, “Leave me alone.”
“Let me explain.”
“Go away.”
“I had a meeting with Vera in the music room. The last thing I needed was you there when she arrived.”
He stopped and looked back. He thought she was crying, but it was difficult to tell with the rain streaming down her face. He hesitated. He slowly moved toward the car and stood by the passenger door, looking across the roof at her.
“Why are you crying?”
“Why do you think?”
“Something Ms. Legate said?”
She nodded.
“What?”
“You’ll hear soon enough.” She sniffed and went on quickly. Her voice had a false, forced brightness that reminded him of her teacher-in-public act. “I haven’t played the piano for you for nearly three weeks. How about now?”
“Ms. Legate would love that.”
“I don’t mean at school.”
“Where then?”
“Your home — or mine.”
“The cottage.”
Birmingham slipped into the car. Amber drove to the cottage. They ran through the pouring rain to the front door and stood close together on the porch as she fumbled with the door handle. Inside, she led him into the room with the piano, closing the door carefully behind them.
“Where’s Winter?” he asked.
“Working, of course.” She looked at Birmingham and laughed. “You’re soaked through.”
“You, too.”
She turned up the heat and said, “I’m going to take this off before I catch cold. You should do the same.”
She pulled off her tunic top. Her t-shirt rode up with it, exposing her stomach and the bottom of her bra. Birmingham looked away quickly, but not before he noticed how white and loose her stomach was. Not like Jenna’s taut and tanned belly.
The rain had soaked through her thin t-shirt and it clung to her. He could almost see through it.
She stood close to him to help him pull off his hoodie. While she hung it up, he looked around. The grand piano took up nearly a quarter of the room. A single window looked out on the trees outside the cottage. A round rug in front of an open fireplace was the only covering on the dark hardwood floor. A worn easy chair stood beside the fire. Birmingham pictured Amber sitting there alone in the evening, reading after playing the piano, while Winter worked in his attic study.
Three photographs stood on the mantle above the fireplace. The first was a black-and-white publicity shot of Amber and the Usual Culprits. Beside it was a photo of Winter, looking craggy and pensive as he gazed across a bleak, snowy landscape. The third showed Amber in a long, lacy wedding dress, holding Winter’s arm with one hand and cradling a small bouquet of flowers with the other. Winter was in jeans and an open-necked shirt. They were much younger, although Winter still looked old enough to be her father.
Birmingham was wondering how old Amber was on her wedding day.
“How old was I then?” She seemed to read his mind, and smiled sadly. “Old enough to be your big sister.”
She sat at the piano and ran her fingers lightly up and down the keyboard. “What would you like me to play?”
“‘Catnip Blues.’”
He sat in the armchair to listen.
When she finished she said, “Now you try it.”
They changed places. When he stumbled over a phrase, she moved behind him and leaned over him to demonstrate, her arms on each side of him. She smelled of coffee and damp clothes. He pushed back against her, so his head was cushioned between her breasts. They felt like the buns his mother used to get from the grocery store, the kind you could squish and then watch resume their original shape.
She withdrew her hands from the keyboard and rested them on his shoulders. He looked around and found their faces only centimetres apart. Her face moved slowly toward his while her hands slid from his shoulders to his stomach.
There were small wrinkles radiating from the corners of her eyes. Her faint moustache of soft, fair hairs glistened with tiny beads of sweat.
Their relationship didn’t need this. He didn’t need this.
He muttered, “No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want —”
“I do. Please, Birmingham . . .”
Her breathing had quickened. Her voice was a hoarse, urgent whisper.
Her nose touched his lightly as her face moved still closer. Her hands crept lower, past the t
op of his pants. One clutched at his zipper, the other scrabbled at his crotch, like a child eager to unwrap a birthday gift.
He repeated, “No . . .”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes. He felt her lips brush his.
A knock at the door of the piano room froze him solid.
Winter called, “Everything all right?”
Amber stepped back. “Birmingham’s going to play the piano. Why don’t you come in and listen?”
Winter appeared at the door.
Old enough to be his big sister when she married him. That meant nearly old enough to be his mother now.
And just being with her had turned out to be not enough, after all. Just like with Jenna. A tidal wave of bitterness washed through him. He felt scoured and empty.
He said, “I better go.”
He stood and made for the door without looking at Amber.
Winter stepped aside with a sad smile. Birmingham suddenly understood that Winter knew about Amber and him, and about the man in the club.
He stumbled out of the cottage. As he started down the dirt road, Amber came to the door and called him. He stopped and looked back. Winter was standing close beside her, his arm round her shoulders, holding her protectively.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. But you’re going to hear soon, anyway,” she said. “Vera told me there’s going to be an inquiry. Into you and me.”
Birmingham reeled up the dirt lane and through the trees. He staggered through Manor Farm Estates, questions roaring through his mind.
What sort of inquiry?
Who ordered it?
Who would be there?
Would the police be involved?
And most importantly, how could he escape it?
He remembered Ms. Legate telling him to see her if he thought of anything she should know. If he went to her now and told her everything, would she — could she — cancel the inquiry?
Or maybe he could be suddenly and seriously sick. He could collapse in Manor Farm Estates. He’d lie on the sidewalk until someone called 911. The ambulance would take him to the hospital and he wouldn’t open his eyes for six weeks. Ms. Legate would have to postpone the inquiry. And they’d all be so pleased to have him back to normal that they would forget all about it.
As soon as he reached home, his parents swarmed him.
“We know you haven’t done anything wrong,” his mother said. “But we’d like to know what’s going on. It would be nice to hear it from you, instead of a phone call from the principal.”
“What does Ms. Legate want a goddamn inquiry for?” said his father. “It’s not like anything serious has taken place.” He looked at Birmingham. “Has it?”
Birmingham shrugged and lied, “I don’t even know what the inquiry is about.”
“Yes, you do,” said his father. “It’s about whatever’s been going on between you and that substitute music teacher.”
“She teaches me. That’s all.”
“The principal said there’s talk that you’ve been meeting her after school. And the two of you are alone in the music room a lot. What does she teach you there?”
“Derek!” said Mrs. Glover.
“Ms. Legate said people are saying you even met in a hotel room, and you go to her house.”
“I go to her house to visit Winter Flood. He asked me. I told you the first time I went.”
“Is she there when you visit?”
Birmingham hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Mrs. Glover said sharply again, “Derek!”
Mr. Glover turned to his wife. “We need to know everything. Anything that’s gone on between him and that frigging substitute teacher, however sordid it is.”
“If that’s what you think, you’re as sick as Ms. Legate,” Birmingham snarled.
He went to his room and slammed the door.
His father called after him, “The principal wants to see you first thing Monday morning.”
Chapter 13
Filled with anger and hurt, Birmingham sulked in his room the whole weekend. His rage veered from Ms. Legate, for calling the inquiry, to Amber, for betraying their ideal love. He felt duped. He saw that she had offered her friendship just to lure him to her house and run her hands down his front. He was afraid that next time he sat down to play the piano, he would feel her fingers clawing between his legs, making him feel violated all over again. He ignored his mother when she said Geoff called, and went downstairs only to eat. She asked him what she could do to help. He said, “Nothing,” and had to fight off the urge to cry.
On Sunday night, he decided he wouldn’t go to school the next day, or ever again. At 7:30 a.m. he was lying in bed, ready to argue with his parents about staying home, when his mother called, “Birmingham, are you up? Geoff’s here.”
He knew he could persuade his parents to let him stay home, at least for a day or two. But Geoff wouldn’t let him get away with it. Birmingham dressed and went downstairs. Geoff was in the kitchen, a glass of juice in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. He was talking politics with Mr. and Mrs. Glover. Birmingham marvelled at how his friend could switch personalities. One minute he seemed adult, the next like the smart-ass kid Birmingham had grown up with.
As Birmingham entered, Geoff broke off his lecture to say, “You look like what my cat threw up last night.”
“Thanks. You’re looking good, too. What are you doing here, anyway? Couldn’t sleep?”
“Just thought I’d come get you, in case you forgot we have school today.”
As they set off, Birmingham grumbled, “I wasn’t planning on going to school.”
“I guessed,” said Geoff. “Because of the inquiry, right?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Mom got a call from Ms. Legate on Friday night.”
“How come?”
“Because I’ll be a star witness, of course. How much is it worth?”
“How much is what worth?”
“How much is it worth for me not to destroy your good name? I’m open to bribery and corruption.”
“Seriously . . .”
“Seriously. My mom got the call that I have to go to an inquiry into — how did Ms. Legate put it? — allegations of an inappropriate relationship between a teacher and a student. I knew that’d be you and the hippie. Then Ms. Legate asked to speak to me.”
“What’d she want with you?”
“She wanted to ask me to do something for her, on account of me being so mature and sensible and level-headed . . .”
“Piss off.”
“She said she wanted to see me first thing Monday morning.”
“She told my folks she wanted to see me first thing.”
“I know. She guessed you wouldn’t show up, so she asked if I would drag you in with me.”
They arrived at school before the buses. Birmingham was glad the halls were still mostly empty.
Ms. Legate was waiting for them at her office door. She greeted them with, “Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in. And thank you, Geoff, for escorting Birmingham. I hope you didn’t have to resort to physical force.”
“Just a little persuasion, ma’am,” said Geoff.
“Please come in and sit down.”
They sat in the easy chairs in Ms. Legate’s office.
“You know about the inquiry,” she said. “It’s not my idea and I am not in favour of it, especially as Mrs. Mooney returns to school today. Ms. Flood is no longer with us.”
Birmingham hoped his face didn’t betray his surprise and hurt. Amber hadn’t told him she was leaving the school.
Ms. Legate went on. “However, I have been overruled by Dr. Sefton, th
e district superintendent. He tells me he has heard rumours and gossip about an affair between one of my teachers, who happens to be a personal friend, and a student. He heard about it at the golf club from the school-board chairman, who heard it at the Rotary Club from Trish’s father, who heard it from his wife, who heard Jenna and Trish talking.”
“The gossip grapevine,” said Geoff.
“Exactly,” said Ms. Legate. “And I have a hard time taking it seriously. However, the superintendent claims the talk is embarrassing for the school district, and he wants the air cleared. If he decides there is any truth in the rumours, he will refer it to the police, who will take action against Ms. Flood. I don’t want that to happen. I believe it would be bad for the school. It would also destroy the career of a good substitute teacher, not to mention the reputation of a well-known musician. Neither would it be a good experience for you, Birmingham, although I have to stress you are the innocent party in all this. Above all, I want the matter to end because, of course, there is no basis for the gossip.” She broke off, looking directly at Birmingham. “Is there, Birmingham?”
“No.”
Looking unblinkingly at him, she warned, “Don’t let me down.”
“No.”
She nodded. “I’ll be saying exactly that — that it is just malicious gossip — when I’m called to speak at Dr. Sefton’s inquiry. I want you to know, in advance, so that you will say the same thing. Do you understand what I am saying?”
The boys nodded.
“I considered talking to Jenna about this, but I’m afraid her anger and hurt are so great it would make things worse. I also considered talking to Trish, but she is not on the list of people attending the inquiry. I am satisfied with that, because I don’t think she would have anything significant to add.” She looked at the boys. “Would she?”
They shook their heads.
The principal stood. “Remember, gentlemen, this meeting is confidential and strictly off the record.”
They muttered thanks and left. The buses had just started arriving, but there were still only a few students around.
Off Limits Page 8