“And you immediately set out to catch her attention —”
“What?”
He knew right away he should have simply denied it. But he was too surprised by what Dr. Sefton said, and it was too late now, because the superintendent kept talking.
“By running to help her when she had trouble with the CD player. And caressing her hand, as if by accident, as you took the CD from her. And then staring at her throughout the rest of the class.”
It was the truth, but it wasn’t the truth.
Who had told him that? Not Ms. Legate. Not Geoff. Maybe Jenna, but he didn’t think she had seen their hands touch.
So . . . Amber.
Was this Amber’s truth, that he was hitting on her from the start?
He should have denied it, but it was too late again. “When Ms. Flood was kind enough to play the piano for you, you stood close enough to her in order to — forgive my bluntness — see down her dress . . .”
Amber must have said that. How else would Dr. Sefton know?
Should he deny it? Or say that maybe she’d let her dress fall open on purpose? He opened his mouth to speak but the superintendent kept right on. “And you were so embarrassed when she saw what you were up to that you ran from the room, nearly colliding with Jenna in the hall.”
It was the truth, but it wasn’t the truth.
Dr. Sefton continued remorselessly, “Ms. Flood wrote a note asking you to see her.”
“Yes.” No point in denying that.
“Then she called your mother to tell her what she planned to tell you, making it unnecessary for you to visit her. But you did so anyway, seeking her out in the music room when you knew she would be alone.”
“No. Yes. But —”
“You visited Ms. Flood at her house.”
“I visited Mr. Flood.”
“Ms. Flood suggests you used your interest in her husband’s books in order to see her.”
It was like a slap in the face.
Birmingham had suspected Amber of using Winter to get him into their home.
And he’d suspected Winter of using him to get closer to Amber.
But it had never occurred to Birmingham that he, himself, might be using Winter to get closer to Amber.
What was the truth?
He blurted out, “She told him to invite me!”
Dr. Sefton looked up from his notes. “Are you seriously suggesting that this famous man of letters would go along with a ruse to invite a fifteen-year-old boy to his house for his wife’s benefit? Do you accuse him of soliciting for her?”
Birmingham remembered wondering the same thing.
He said, “But she asked me to stay for tea . . .”
“Ms. Flood said you wouldn’t leave after your visit with her husband, although he had returned to work. She offered you tea, and then supper, because she didn’t have the heart to turn you away.”
Dr. Sefton was reciting Amber’s version of the truth, how she’d turned what happened against him. Was it from disappointment, because she’d wanted something more from him? Was it from anger, because she thought he’d let her down? Whatever the reason, it was his fault, and she’d won. There was no point in telling his truth. There was no point in saying anything. Dr. Sefton wasn’t listening.
“You even showed up at a hotel where she was trying to relax after a taxing musical performance.”
The superintendent looked at Birmingham.
Birmingham said nothing.
“Finally, Ms. Flood offered you a ride when she found you walking in the rain.”
Puff.
“She knew you were upset because the music room was off-limits. She offered to play the piano for you, to cheer you up.”
Dr. Sefton looked up from his notes.
Birmingham kept his silence.
The superintendent raised his eyebrows and glowered at Birmingham for a few seconds before going on. “Then she found her good intentions had backed her into a corner. The music room was not available, and you insisted she play for you at her home. You knew Mr. Flood would be at work in his study, and you would have Ms. Flood to yourself.”
Birmingham folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.
“In addition to playing for you, she was kind enough to give you a lesson at the piano. At that point you took advantage of her by writhing against her as she demonstrated for you, until Mr. Flood intervened, saving Ms. Flood — and you — from further embarrassment.”
Birmingham stood. He kicked over his chair and walked out.
He found Jenna waiting for him outside. She was sitting on a low stone wall near the school’s main entrance. It was 4:30, which meant she’d been there for more than an hour.
When she saw Birmingham, she jumped up and ran to him, her words tumbling out. “Are you all right? How was it? Isn’t Dr. Sefton a total shit?” Without giving him time to answer, she hugged him and added, “Can I walk home with you?”
They set off together, not touching, not even holding hands. Birmingham recalled how he used to feel younger and less experienced than she was. Now he felt older, and she seemed like a junior-high kid — no longer brash, but shy and uncertain.
Innocent, even.
Chapter 15
Birmingham picked up the phone and snapped, “Hello.”
He was at home alone, a week after the inquiry. The phone had already rung twice that evening. He’d picked up and no one had spoken, although he was sure someone was there.
No answer again, but he could hear movement, a faint rustling.
He was about to hang up when he heard a piano in the background — “Long Time No See.”
“Winter?” he said.
He pictured his writer friend in his kitchen, holding the phone close, one eye on the closed door of the piano room.
An exhalation of breath. Then, “Ah! Sorry. I didn’t know if it was you.”
“What if it wasn’t.”
“Then I would have hung up,” Winter said simply. “Stupid, I know. That’s why Am—” He stopped.
“Amber — you can say her name,” said Birmingham.
“Sorry. That’s why she makes all my calls.”
He was even more paranoid than Birmingham had thought.
“Why are you calling?” Birmingham was instantly sorry he’d said it so abruptly. Amber’s treatment of him wasn’t Winter’s fault.
Winter didn’t seem to notice. “To say sorry — for Amber. For how she acted. I should have suspected as soon as she started talking about you.”
“You mean it’s happened before?” He didn’t know if he wanted to hear.
“Oh, yes. But only once with a young person. It was a long time ago, and she promised it would never happen again.”
Birmingham snorted. “So much for her promise.”
“I’m not making excuses for her,” said Winter. “But may I tell you why I think she behaves the way she does?”
“Why she’s a scheming, selfish bitch, you mean? I don’t really care.”
Birmingham thought of Tina in Winter’s book Faking It. What had he written to Winter? Is Tina a troubled young woman? Or is she just a heartless, selfish bitch?
“I don’t blame you for feeling like that,” said Winter. “But it might be helpful for you to hear it.”
He paused. The piano had stopped. Another tune started.
Winter went on. “I know Amber’s father. He’s a poet. I met him years ago at a writers’ retreat. In those days, his poems were all about betrayal. One night, we were discussing our work and he told me he wrote about betrayal because his brother betrayed him. He betrayed him with his little daughter, Amber — also betraying her, of course. Amber’s father said after it happened — Amber never would say how many times — she fou
nd it difficult to make friends, and when she did make a friend, it never lasted long. When I met Amber, she was still only in her early teens. I felt sorry for her, of course, but sympathized with her loneliness, too. Because I was as friendless as she was, for reasons you understand, knowing me a bit.”
Birmingham managed to laugh. “You’re not that bad, just a bit weird about time and the tea cups.”
Winter laughed too, ruefully. “I’m afraid you don’t know the half of it.”
It’s not easy being married to me.
He continued, “I thought of us, Amber and me, as two wounded souls. I thought we were meant to bring solace to one another.”
He broke off. Amber was singing. “Going where I shouldn’t. Tried to stop but couldn’t. Who cares?”
“It worked for me,” Winter concluded. “But not for her.”
***
Two weeks later, the telephone jarred Birmingham awake.
His father appeared at his bedroom door. “It’s Geoff.”
“What’s the time?”
“Seven o’clock. I was just coming to wake you. Breakfast’s ready.”
Mr. Glover left the room.
“Waddaya want at this freakin’ time of the morning?” Birmingham mumbled into the phone.
“And top of the morning to you,” said Geoff breezily. “How’s your day been so far?”
“It hasn’t. You just woke me up.”
“Good. No one should be sleeping on a splendid morning like this. Moreover, I bring you tidings of great joy.”
“You what?”
Geoff sang, “Tidings of co-omfort and joy, comfort and joy . . .”
“Have you been into your ma’s uppers again?”
Geoff assumed a wounded tone. “Au contraire. I’ve been out for a run and stopped on my way back to check the mailbox. Guess what I found.”
“How the hell should I know?”
“It’s multiple choice: A stuffed rabbit. A rhinoceros. A severed head. A letter. All of the above.”
Birmingham groaned.
“Give up?” Geoff asked. “Okay, I’ll tell you. A letter —”
Birmingham interrupted. “I’m so glad you woke me to say you found mail in the mailbox. What’ll you find next? Bread in the bread bin? Coffee in the coffee jar?”
“A letter from Dr. Sefton.”
“. . . Cookies in the cook— What did you say?”
“I said I found a letter from Dr. Sefton, to my mom?”
“How do you know it’s a letter from Dr. Sefton?”
“Because I opened it.”
“You opened a letter addressed to your mom?”
“She won’t mind. And really, it’s for me. You’ll get one too. But you’ll probably want to let your folks read it first.”
“What’s it say?”
“I quote,” said Geoff. He imitated Dr. Sefton, like he had in school. “‘Having reviewed all the evidence placed before me in the matter of the alleged improper relationship between the substitute teacher Ms. Amber Flood, and the student Birmingham Glover, I am satisfied that no such improper relationship existed, and all parties are exonerated of any wrongdoing.’ Signed: Dr. Adrian J. Sefton, Chief Pooh-Bah, Back River School District.”
Birmingham breathed, “Thank you, Geoff.”
Birmingham’s dad called him during lunch break at school and told him the same thing. “Good news, eh?” he said. “I always knew there was nothing in it.”
A few minutes later, Ms. Legate stopped Birmingham in the hall. “You heard?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That will be the end of it.”
He wished he had the nerve to ask what she’d told Dr. Sefton. Had she told her truth? Or her friend Amber’s truth? He was pretty sure she hadn’t told Birmingham’s truth. He couldn’t blame her. He no longer knew himself whose truth was the real truth.
“What have you learned from all this?” Ms. Legate asked.
He wanted to say that he learned everyone’s truth was different, and the only truth he knew was he’d had a crush on a teacher, and now he felt put in his place.
He felt used, soiled, diminished, and humiliated.
Crushed.
But he just mumbled, “I dunno.”
“How about this: It’s always pleasant and exciting — flattering, even — to receive an invitation,” said Ms. Legate. “But you don’t have to accept every invitation, and you must refuse some.”
“Okay,” said Birmingham.
“You won’t be seeing Ms. Flood anymore.”
Birmingham promised, “No.”
“I mean,” said Ms. Legate, “you won’t be seeing her because she and Winter are moving away.”
Chapter 16
It had been more than a month since the inquiry, and everything was back to normal.
The gossip at school was about a custodian finding pornographic photos in the garbage in one of the science labs. Before that, it had been about members of the football team getting suspended for turning up at a school dance totally wasted. Birmingham was happy to go unnoticed again. Geoff’s antics provided him with a few shared moments in the spotlight, rescuing him from complete anonymity. Mrs. Mooney’s usual discipline problems in music had resumed, but so far she was hanging in.
With soccer season over, Birmingham, Geoff, Jenna, and Trish had taken up indoor lacrosse. They played twice a week, then walked home together, usually stopping at Tim Hortons. Jenna, to everyone’s surprise — not least her own— was a standout goalkeeper. The Glover-Reeve Union played for the opening of a new coffee shop in the mall, and was booked to play twice more at the same place. Jenna had started singing with Birmingham and Geoff. Her breathy, little girl voice resonated strangely of innocence and experience at the same time.
Birmingham was surprised to discover that he and Jenna were going together again.
He hardly noticed it happening. Jenna had started it, as she had before, by hanging out with him between classes and walking home with him at the end of the day. At first, they were always among a group of their friends. Birmingham, still reeling after the inquiry, was simply grateful for company, because it made things at least seem normal. Then he started finding himself alone with her more and more often, and suddenly everyone regarded them as an item.
He saw Ms. Flood once more.
He was at the mall with Jenna on a Saturday afternoon. He’d just bought her a coffee, and they were sitting close together in the food court. In her knee-length pleated navy skirt and demure white blouse, her winter coat cast aside, she looked younger but hotter than ever. It was as if she was growing into the image her singing voice projected.
Ms. Flood was with the man from the club. She looked older, and Birmingham had to look twice to make sure it was her. He’d never noticed the saggy skin around her neck, and how blotchy and veined her cheeks were.
She said, “Hi, Birmingham,” in the bright, teacher-in-public voice he hated.
***
Birmingham and Jenna had been back together for nearly two weeks when they approached the cemetery as they walked along Main Street. Birmingham wanted to go in, but at the same time he didn’t want to. He was back where he’d started, wanting sex at the same time as cowering from the disappointment he feared would follow.
Jenna made his mind up for him by sweeping past the cemetery without even looking in. They were holding hands by then, and had kissed a few times. She pulled him to a stop further along the street. “Do you want to go to the cemetery?”
“Don’t know. Do you?”
She shook her head. “Not unless it means something more than just sex.”
Fries alone were somehow not enough.
“Something like what?”
She shrugged. Then she looked in
to his eyes and smiled. “What do you think?”
He swallowed and dodged the question. “I only want to if you want to.”
She laughed. “And I only want to if you want to.”
It was like verbal tennis.
“It’s what we’re supposed to want to do,” he said.
“That’s why I wanted to do it before. Everyone was asking if we had done it yet, and when were we going to do it. It was like there was something wrong with us if we weren’t doing it, because we were supposed to be doing it, like, ten times a day.”
“But we don’t always have to do what we’re supposed to,” Birmingham pointed out.
They walked on slowly.
Then stopped.
“Shall we?” asked Jenna.
“What do you think?” said Birmingham.
Copyright
Copyright © 2012 by Robert Rayner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada. We acknowledge the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rayner, Robert, 1946-
Off limits [electronic resource] / Robert Rayner.
(SideStreets)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4594-0084-9 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-4594-0085-6 (PDF)
I. Title. II. Series: SideStreets (Online)
PS8585.A974O33 2012 jC813’.6 C2011-907949-6
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