by Bill Rowe
“No, I’ll eat later. Mom, I was going to have a little nap. I was up early for practice this morning and I have a lot of studying to do tonight.”
“How’s Rosie?”
“What are you asking about Rosie for?”
“Well, Nina said she’s been staying with Suzy, and she also told me she wouldn’t be surprised if Heathcliff flew the coop in the aftermath of—”
“Rosie’s fine,” I said impatiently. And I burst into tears.
Not since I was nine had I sobbed my heart out in front of my mother. She came over and put her arms around my head and held it to her breast and rocked back and forth and kissed my hair in many places, just like when I was nine. I stopped and muttered, “Okay, Mom, please…” freeing my head from her arms.
She stepped back one pace as I dried my eyes on my shirt sleeves, and she murmured, “I could tell as soon as I saw you that you were in some kind of trouble. Whatever it is, it’s not the end of the world. We can deal with it. Is Rosie pregnant?”
I nearly laughed at the irrelevance of her earnest question out of the blue. “No, it’s got nothing to do with anything like that.”
A shout came from Dad downstairs: “Port time.” Every night he and Mom had a glass of port after supper. It was one of the things that irritated me about them, how set they were in their little routines. But tonight it was a small flame of mutual love that made me see how dark the gulf was surrounding my own heart.
Mom went out into the hall and called down, “Joe, there’s something I have to finish first. You go ahead and have your port. I’ll be there in a little while.”
“Okay, but when I turn into an alcoholic, it’ll be all your fault. Drinking alone is the first step.”
She came back into my room, her grin from her husband’s silly response replaced by a frown of concentration. She sat on my bed and looked at me. “What is it, then?”
“There’s nothing wrong, Mom.” I wanted to ask her what she’d seen or known of Rosie’s condition back in grade seven. But of course I couldn’t. I was sworn to secrecy. “I wish you’d go on down and have your drink with Dad.”
“There is something wrong, Tom, that’s blindingly obvious, but I won’t try to coerce you. Just remember, I’m a professional nurse, used to dealing with serious personal matters on a completely confidential basis. And your father, of course—confidentiality is the hallmark of his profession. So think about it tonight and let me know if we can help.”
That night I did think about it, but unwillingly. I just wanted to go to sleep, to sweet oblivion, but sleep stayed miles away and hours off. My brain insisted on contemplating what Rosie had done. She’d supplied no details and all I had in my head was the abstract: she had been sexually exploited. However, my imagination obligingly filled in the blanks with pictures of its own devising. All the acts she and I had engaged in together. Acts I thought I was taking a lead in, but that she was already an old hand at. She had encouraged the man! If she had been forced by him, I told myself, then I’d have no trouble accommodating my mind to the mere physical acts involved. But she had taken the lead in doing the acts too, and the fact that she’d been only twelve could not stave off my nauseating feelings of jealousy and betrayal. The law said she could not have consented. Hah! I well remembered her from those days, and she’d been as intelligent and knowledgeable and aware as any adult I’d ever known, then or since.
This line of thought made me throw myself about in my bed and call myself sick for thinking that way. Sick, sick, sick. Why, she’d been only a vulnerable little girl, grief-stricken over the loss of her beloved father, and easy pickings for a guileful child molester. I loved her. I loved the poor little thing. But no. She’d made it clear the man had not been like that at all. She had brought it on herself. And she had left me for him. I loathed her. I loved her and I loathed her.
Two or three hours before I was due to get up and go to school I fell into a sleep of dread. In it I slid relentlessly headfirst down a deep narrowing dark airless cave until I came to a stop upside down with my shoulders and head wedged tight into a constricted space from which there was no escape but a gasping, panicky, claustrophobic death.
My eyes flew open in the black. At first, even awake, I thought I was still doomed at the bottom of the narrow cave. Then it came to me that I had escaped and I held in my head, fully formed, simple and elegant, the solution. The activity she believed she had taken the lead in was so wrong and so vile to her that it had traumatized her mind and body for months. Therefore she could not have done it of her own free will but must have been unwittingly under his control like an automaton. But for a man to have been able to exercise such control over a girl so morally intelligent and naturally resistant to abhorrent behaviour or exploitation, he must have already been practised and skilled in exerting his will in that way. Thus, though Rosie may have thought she had encouraged him and wanted to do it, in truth, she had been a defenceless, guileless child manipulated into thinking and doing it by a cunning pedophile who had known exactly how to do it because he had done it all before.
I jumped out of bed and went to the window. I pulled the curtains apart and looked out into the sliver of dawn appearing under the wispy finger of fog over Signal Hill. In the strengthening light of morning, as the sun rose and the fog dissipated, my conclusion seemed just as strong to me as it had been between asleep and awake in bed. Dr. Rothesay was a chronic pedophile. Why else would he have married a widow years older than himself who just happened to have two prepubescent daughters, when he could have courted almost any young woman he wanted? Jesus Christ, it was all so obvious. Why hadn’t anyone seen it clearly at the time? And if he was a pedophile over here, he’d been a pedophile over there in England. I even knew how I could prove my theory true: through the association of my father’s accounting firm in St. John’s with the international firm’s offices in London. I would ask my father to use the London office to conduct an investigation into Heathcliff Rothesay’s background. They did that all the time to check out important job applicants. Headhunting and verifying the bona fides of the heads hunted was their stock in trade. This was perfect. I even knew why my father would do it for me. Obviously, when Rosie had been in grade seven, my mother and father had suspected something about Rothesay and Rosie. But their suspicions had been somehow nipped in the bud and nothing had come of it. This was now an opportunity to set the record straight. I looked at my clock. My father usually rose at quarter to eight. It was now seven-thirty. I’d wait till he got up. But hang on—Mom couldn’t find any reference to a Dr. Rothesay when we’d been in London. Either he wasn’t a doctor at all or he must have changed his name to cover his tracks. I could not stop myself from bolting out of my room and down the hall and knocking on their door. On my mother’s sleepy “Yes?” I entered and strode to the foot of their bed like a man possessed of a Nobel Prize–winning concept.
“Mom,” I erupted, “you said you’d help me if I needed you to, you and Dad, well I need Dad’s help now. Dad, I need your people in England to check out someone for me. Dr. Rothesay. I’ve been wondering what he is doing over here in Newfoundland in the first place. Why did he leave London so early in his medical practice to come over here to a remote part of the British Empire? Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone has heard all the sentimental sop, broken heart and all that crap. But what was he really escaping from over there? Dad, I need an investigation into his background in London.”
My parents’ eyes were riveted on me. My father looked bug-eyed. The bedclothes up to his neck, with his head lifted slightly off his pillow in wild surmise over what his lunatic son might be babbling on about in the quiet, dawn sanctity of his matrimonial bedroom, he began softly, “Dr. Rothesay?” and his voice rose with every subsequent word. “Investigation? In London? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Shh,” said Mom. “I told you something was wrong.”
“I can’t tell you yet,” I said. “I promised I’d keep everything confidential.”
“Rothesay? What are you trying to find out about him?”
“Dad, I said I can’t—”
“I know what you said, Tom. But you’re asking me out of the blue to go on a wild goose chase without—”
Mom broke in. “Tom, sweetheart, does this have anything to do with Rosie and Pagan?”
“Mom, I promised I’d keep it secret. But if the background check in London turns up what I believe it will, I’ll get the necessary permission to tell you and Dad everything. I promise.”
“Just tell me this then,” she said. “Does it have anything to do with that bad time in Rosie’s life when you were at St. Mary’s? I think you were in grade… I can’t remember.”
“Grade seven,” I said, before realizing she’d just wormed affirmation out of me. “But please, Mom, I can’t talk about it. I’m just asking for your help like you promised last night. So, Dad, some nice and sharp inquiries about Rothesay before he came over here by your firm in London to the police or the courts, whatever they do when someone from England has applied for a job as president of some big company here in Canada, say, will turn up the information I need.”
“Tom, my son, listen. Before we get into your nice and sharp inquiries about whatever it is you won’t tell us about, let’s look at the thing for half a second. The man is a practising physician over here. If he’d done anything wrong over there, surely he would have lost his licence to practise and would not have been able to transfer over here. The medical boards have strict protocols in such circumstances.”
My father’s logic took me aback. But after a moment’s hesitation, so certain did I remain, I persisted: “God, you often hear of some guy in an operating room performing surgery in a big hospital and he doesn’t even have a high school diploma. If someone is sneaky and sly enough—I don’t think that should stop us. Sure, I heard Mom and you talking about his name not even being registered over there.”
“What?” He spoke directly to Mom. “For the love and honour of Christ, what kind of ears does the young fella have on him? He hears every fu— every bloody thing we say. Tom, listen to me. Apart from anything else, I’d be abusing my association with the London office to send them on a wild goose chase like that for purely personal, not professional, reasons.”
“We could make it professional. I’d pay for it out of my bank account. It could be one of those headhunting things, checking out his background for a possible job consideration here.”
“Coming up with weaselly reasons doesn’t improve the situation.”
I felt frustration in the face of absolute stupidity welling up. “Well, one way or the other I’m going to find out,” I said, heading towards the door. There I turned back and bawled, “If I had suspicions years ago and let it all drop, I’ll tell you one frigging thing right now, after Pagan and everything, I’d try to make up for my stupid…” My mother’s face was aghast and it made me stop. Which was fortunate, because I would have blurted out everything in my rage.
“What?” said my father. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry I even brought the idea up. Shag it. Forget it.” I stomped out and went into my room and closed the door noisily.
I lay on my bed and nursed my outrage at how goddamned moronic my parents were and contemplated discussing my idea with Rosie. She could ask the police here to check out Rothesay through their London counterparts. But if I was right about him, there’d be a lot of pressure on her to co-operate in laying charges against him. She mightn’t like that. But maybe charges could be laid back in England for crimes he skipped out on. As my anger at my parents subsided, I expected one of them, especially my mother, to knock on my door and come in for the usual mollifying chat. But she didn’t and I started to become a little embarrassed. They must have thought I was really nuts, barging into their room like that with what had to sound like a demented idea. Within the hour I heard first Dad’s car and then Mom’s starting up in the driveway and leaving.
I wandered downstairs in my pyjamas and had a glass of orange juice. I would not go to school today. I felt too miserable. I had to admit to myself I did not want to see Rosie. Not just yet. I had to take this day by myself in the empty house and try to sort out my feelings and think things through. I heard a car coming into the driveway and looked out the window. It was Mom, back for some reason. I sat down at the table and put a sullen look on my face.
“Tom, I can’t stay,” she said, seeing me on entering, “we’ve got an executive meeting starting in a few minutes at the hospital, but I couldn’t have you thinking we are not concerned. Your father is going to do it. He doesn’t like it and he didn’t want you or Rosie or anyone else to know he’s even doing it until he hears back, and I’m trusting you to say nothing. He’s going to call London as soon as he gets to his office this morning.”
FOR TWO DAYS, I went around swathed in hopelessness and unreality. The hopelessness stemmed from my confidence, now that my mother had told me the investigation I’d demanded was going ahead, that it would turn up nothing. The unreality came from everyone’s normal behaviour, as if nothing had happened. Nobody, neither Rosie when she called my home at recess time the first day to see if I was sick, nor she nor Suzy at school the next day, nor Mom nor Dad at home both evenings, nor I, at any time, mentioned the word Rothesay. Everybody talked about everything but that subject. Rosie herself, because her mother asked her to, was going home to sleep tonight in a house containing the man himself, as if sanity, lucidity, and soundness prevailed. Then, on the third day, the universe itself went bananas.
The telephone call came at five to eight in the morning. I was just coming out of the bathroom from my shower when I heard the ring. I stopped in the hall. It might be Rosie calling to arrange a get-together in school or after. I heard my mother downstairs saying, “It’s for you, Joe, long distance from London.”
With my towel around my hips in the upstairs hall, I stood rooted and listened. Dad said, “Hello… oh hello, Warwick, it’s nice to… No, no, no, you did the right thing calling me at home—I wanted to hear as soon as you had something.” Then he remained absolutely silent for a full minute, not a “yes” or an “I see” or even a grunt. Nothing. Standing there chilly in my towel, I was wondering if he’d been cut off when I heard, “My God! That is incredible!” Then another silence and, “Unbelievable, utterly unbe—Pardon? No, this oral report is sufficient for now. I’ll let you know if we want a written one. Thanks for doing this so fast, Warwick. My client will be forever grateful. Send the invoice to me, personally, if you would. Bye for now… Jesus Christ, Gladys, you had the guy pegged years ago. Where’s Tom?”
“Having his shower, I think. What’d they say?”
“What didn’t they say? This is a powder keg. TOM, COME DOWN! GET DOWN HERE QUICK!”
I trotted down the stairs in my towel. “What’s going on?”
Dad was pacing the kitchen, a scrap of paper in his hand, and Mom was watching him from her chair at the table. “Tom, my son, my son,” he said, waving the paper at me, “if you ever show the same intuition with the stock market as you did with this, you’ll be a multi-millionaire before you’re twenty-five. I was just talking to London. He has a record with the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard for sexually assaulting four young girls. They have him in their files as a predatory pedophile.”
“Holy fuck!” It was out before I could stop it. I glanced at Mom to apologize, but both she and Dad were nodding at me in agreement.
Then Mom asked, eyes narrow, head shaking, “But how can he be practising medicine over here with that on his record?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time some doctor or teacher or priest left behind a record of sexual deviancy,” said Dad, “and insinuated himself into another unsuspecting jurisdiction. In this case, he was helped by a name change before he came over. Apparently, he started off in life as James Balbo.” He spelled out the last name.
“Which explains why… Still, it is strange, th
ough,” said Mom. “Did they say if he spent any time in prison, Joe?”
“I don’t have any details like that. I only asked them to get back to me as soon as they found anything that might disqualify him for a position of trust. They came up with this after one visit to the CID in London.”
“I suppose it’s the right person,” said Mom. “It’s not possible it’s a mistake?”
Dad read from his note: “‘Heathcliff Godolphin Rothesay, born James Balbo, Beckenham, Kent, September thirtieth, nineteen thirty-five, physician. Reportedly left England in the late sixties. Thought to be somewhere in North America.’”
“That sounds like him for sure.”
“So, Tom, do you mind telling us what is going on, precisely, and why you wanted me to get this stuff?”
“I’ll have to get permission first to break my confidence.”
“Well, do it quick, please. You’ve dragged us into this now, willy-nilly, and we have a right to be fully informed.”
“WHAT!” ROSIE WHISPERED FIERCELY tomeinacornerof a corridor after school. “I told you all that in the strictest confidence and you’re telling me you went and mentioned it to your father!”
“I mentioned nothing to him. Your name and what happened was never brought up. I merely asked to have a check done in England as if it was a job application. Before you get too mad, wait till you hear what we found out. He—”
“Tom, you know darn well as soon as you mentioned his name to your father, he and your mother put two and two together. You told me you thought they suspected something back in grade seven. God, this is terrible. This will end up forcing me in directions I may not want to go. Oh God, this is awful.”
“Rosie, he was nailed for sexual abuse of children over there.” I told her what I had learned. “The man is a psychopath who took advantage of his position of trust over you to do the same things to you. He exploited and abused your vulnerability and your grief and your need for love, just as he had done before with the other children. What happened to you was in no way your doing or your fault.”