Return to Innocence

by G. M. Frazier

  “Yes, it’s too bad...” I pause.

  “Is there anything else, Dr. Erskine?”

  “No, Kay, I’ll see you later. If you happen to see John, tell him I’ll be late coming in this morning. Benjamin is sick.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll tell Dr. Brantley.”

  “Thanks. Bye, Kay.”

  Did I tell Karen about Chris last night? And what is going on with one of the residents? I get up and pour myself some more coffee. I decide to go and check the temperature of the water in the pool. I open the French doors off from the den that open onto the back patio. Suzanne was right, it is cold this morning. The air is crisp. I breathe in deeply. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

  I walk down the brick steps and across the patio then onto the grass. It’s wet. And cold. I should have put my slippers on. I round the hedge surrounding the pool and I know immediately that the heater is working. Steam is rising from the water’s surface. Perhaps eighty degrees is a little too warm. I go in the pool house and set the thermostat to seventy-two. I come back out and sit in one of the deck chairs. I take a sip of coffee and look at the back of the house silhouetted against the bright morning sky in the east. I never, ever thought I would have a house like this.

  We live in the Ravens Run subdivision of Mount Pleasant. Three years ago when Suzanne and I were looking for a house we didn’t even bother looking in this area. The homes were way, way out of our price range. But I happened to mention to Jim Aiken, a close friend of mine, that we were looking and he said he would sell me his house. Suzanne and I had been to Jim’s house twice. Once for cocktails and once for a New Year’s Eve party. We knew there was no way. But he insisted that we take the keys and go look at it.

  “Look around,” he had said, “you’ll love it.” Right. Three story brick colonial with over six thousand square feet, six bedrooms, six baths, formal dining room, formal living room, breakfast room, library, gigantic den with a huge stone fireplace, in ground pool, Jacuzzi, and a detached four car garage with a game room upstairs above it: all situated on a wooded two-acre lot, it was more of a small estate than a home for a middle income family like us. We thanked Jim and told him that $100,000 to $150,000 was our price range. Jim asked us if we liked the house. Of course we liked it, we had told him.

  “Sold,” he said.

  Now Jim is one of the most generous people I have ever known. But there was more to this magnanimous gesture than mere generosity. For over a year this house had been empty. Jim didn’t want to sell it. And he couldn’t live in it. His wife had been murdered in the driveway by some lunatic who was stalking her. Jim found her body when he got home from work. He never set foot on the grounds again after that night. He had a few personal items removed from the house before we moved in. But the furniture went with the house. All for a purchase price of $150,000.

  The folks down at Merchant’s National Bank couldn’t believe it when I went in to arrange financing. The house was appraised at over three quarters of a million dollars. Needless to say, there was no problem with the loan being approved.

  I take a sip of coffee. I’m getting cold. Suddenly I remember Benjamin. He’s inside by himself waiting for me to tell him a story.

  When I got to New Horizons a little after ten, John Brantley was still in the meeting. I asked Kay if she knew what it was about, but she said she didn’t. Karen didn’t tell her much before she left.

  The thing that bothers me now, however, is the fact that someone has been in my office. Nothing is missing except for Tommy Jackson’s file, which I left on my desk after getting it from Chris yesterday. The incident report on Chris and Tommy is in that file. So where is it? Who would come in here and get it?

  Chris.

  Did he come back to New Horizons and...? No, my office was locked. I sit down and try to make sense of this. John is the only person, other than myself, who has a key to this office. I pick up the phone and punch his extension. Sheila, his secretary, answers. She tells me that John wants to see me.

  “I’m on my way,” I tell her.

  As I walk in John’s office I am surprised to see Lucille Drake from Children and Youth Services. There is a man with her whom I do not know. Nice suit.

  “Good morning, John,” I say. “Lucille, how are you?”

  John nods, barely an acknowledgement, and Lucille acts as if I’m not in the room. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on John. She clears her throat. “John, I can expect your call later?” she says.

  “I’ll call you, Lucille. I’m sure we can get this worked out.”

  “I hope so,” she says.

  I expect her to acknowledge me on the way out, but she doesn’t. Lucille refuses to look at me, even though I have to step aside for her to leave. She has only been with DSS for six months and in that time I’ve found her to be a distant person. Maybe she just doesn’t like me. Her escort closes the door behind them.

  I look at John. “What’s with her?” I ask. “She acted like she doesn’t even know me.”

  “Have a seat, Glen.” John motions toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Leather. Exactly like the ones in my office. I sit and cross my legs.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Did you come to New Horizons last night?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “May I ask the reason for that visit?” I have never heard John take this tone with me. Formal. Cold.

  “I came by to tell Tommy Jackson about Chris Manning’s death. He was killed in a car wreck yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know. Why did you feel it necessary to notify one of our residents before notifying me, the administrator of this facility?”

  John’s question is perfectly legitimate. He is the first person I should have called about Chris’ death. I shift my weight in the chair. “John, I don’t know if you are aware of it, but Chris was Tommy Jackson’s counselor. They were very close. I didn’t want Tommy to just hear about his death. I came right here from the hospital. I’m sorry I didn’t think to call you. But at the time, my only concern was for Tommy and how he would react.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “Better than I anticipated, actually.”

  “He wasn’t upset?”

  “A little. But you have to remember, I woke him from a sound sleep. I doubt if it really hit him until this morning.”

  “Yes,” John says. He leans back and swivels to face one of the long windows on the wall behind his desk. His back is to me now.

  I look past him through the window to the view of the courtyard. The leaves in the trees are finally starting to change.

  “Did you and Tommy discuss anything else last night?” John asks, his back still to me.

  “Other than Chris?”

  “Yes.”

  My guard is up now. John cannot see me but my hesitation speaks volumes. “No,” I finally say.

  John swivels back to face me. His elbows are planted on the arms of his chair and he has both index fingers pressed to his chin. His stare is unnerving. “If Chris was Tommy’s counselor, why did you have his file in your office?”

  So John was the one in my office. “John, there is nothing unusual about me having a resident’s file on my desk. All our counselors are free to come to me for input. I encourage it.”

  John nods. Is it a nod of agreement or something else? “And that is what Chris did? He came to you for input?”

  Again I hesitate. “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  I anticipated this one. “Recent mood swings in Tommy. Increased frequency of acting out.”

  “Really?” John reaches for the manila folder which I recognize as Tommy’s file. He opens it. “I don’t see any mention of that in Chris’ notes. His last entry is dated Friday and is positive. No mention of mood swings or acting out.”

  I swallow. My throat is dry. Where is he going with this? Why do I suddenly feel I am being interrogated? “Were you aware that Tommy was in Home Time with Chris and his wife this past weekend?” I ask
.

  “Yes, that is Chris’ last entry in Tommy’s file.” John taps his finger on the page.

  “Did he mention that he called me Saturday morning and asked me to come and get Tommy?”

  Now it’s John’s turn to be surprised. “No. The last entry is dated Friday. Chris asked you to come and get the boy?”

  “Yes. According to Chris, Tommy was too much to handle for Mary. You know she is expecting their first baby at any time.”

  John nods. His formality is softening a bit. There is less of an edge to his demeanor. “So Chris came to you for input on a behavior change in Tommy that manifested itself in Home Time?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How so?”

  “I didn’t wait for him to come to me. Tommy was somewhat of a handful at my house, too...so I approached Chris about his behavior yesterday morning.”

  “Okay,” John says. “Why were you shouting during your meeting with Chris?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, John, Chris and I had a disagreement over something. A personal matter.”

  “A personal matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t have anything to do with this incident report?” John holds up the form.

  So he knows. That’s what this is all about. Tommy has told and I’m being called on the carpet for not reporting the incident immediately.

  John holds out the form. I take it. It’s a photocopy of the original. Tommy’s name is on it. But wait. I did not enter Chris’ name on the line marked Staff Member. My own notations are there concerning mutual masturbation and possible oral copulation. And Chris signed the form in the wrong place. He signed it...as if he were filing the report.

  “Glen? Did your disagreement with Chris have anything to do with that report?” He points to the piece of paper in my hand.

  “This report was a mistake, John. A misunderstanding. It should not have...I was not going to file it. I intended to destroy it when I came in this morning.”

  “Glen, Tommy Jackson’s name is on that report. And according to the notes, there was oral sex and masturbation. Mutual, between Tommy and a staff member. Chris Manning signed the report. And now you are telling me you were not going to file it. Would you care to explain that?”

  “John, you have to trust me on this. That report is a non-issue. It was a mistake.”

  “Are you telling me that there was nothing to report? Is that the mistake? Or are you saying that the mistake would have been in filing the report?”

  “Look, John, I’ve been sitting here for the better part of ten minutes answering questions that, frankly, don’t make any sense. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Glen, I’ve already told you more than I should have. Lucille was doing me a favor by letting me talk with you before they do. I thought maybe we could resolve this in-house, so to speak.”

  “Resolve what? Why is Children and Youth Services calling the shots here?”

  “Because Karen Stillman called them this morning. Under the circumstances, she was correct to do so. ”

  It hits me. “You mean DSS called you in on this? You didn’t call them?”

  “Lucille called me a little after six this morning and asked me to meet her here.”

  “And who was the guy with her?”

  “An investigator with the Charleston County Sheriff’s department.”

  “The sheriff? Why—”

  “I’m not at liberty to answer any of your questions,” John says as if quoting from some rule book.

  A few things start to click. If Tommy told one of the night staff about what happened between Chris and him, I should have been called immediately. That is standard protocol. For some reason DSS was notified directly and I was not contacted at all. I look at the copy of the incident report in my hand. No name is on it. Except Tommy’s. And Chris’ signature. That’s it. John thinks Chris was filing the report...about me.

  I look at him. I know I have gone pale. My heart is beating so fast I think it’s going to jump out of my chest. I feel faint. “What’s this about, John?” I finally ask, barely getting the words out.

  “Tommy Jackson has accused you of sexually molesting him.”

  My mind goes blank. I am not here. This is not happening.

  How many seconds have passed? Ten? Twenty? A minute? I don’t know. I cannot speak.

  I have spent nearly twenty years working with children in one capacity or another since my undergraduate days as a psych major at Hampden-Sydney when I worked as an assistant counselor at a boys home, to my internship at the University of Virginia for my master’s in youth counseling, to my specialization in the treatment of sexual abuse victims for my Psy.D. at the Medical College of Virginia, and finally, my Ph.D. in child psychology from Stellenbosch. I have interviewed countless men who have sat where I now sit: in the chair of the accused. So-and-so said you molested her—or him. I’ve always wondered exactly how a man feels when accused of such a heinous act, especially if he didn’t do it. Now I know.

  The fine line that Chris Manning crossed has risen up to cross me.

  Why on earth would Tommy Jackson say I molested him?

  “John, this is a mistake.” I hand the copy of the incident report back to him. “Look at the notes on there. That’s my handwriting.”

  John takes the form, but he doesn’t look at it.

  “Can I tell you something in confidence?” I ask. “I am assuming you are going to inform DSS of our conversation?”

  “You know I will. Normally, in the case of a staff member being accused of sexual misconduct, you would be conducting this interview, Glen. Everything you say will be included in the report. What is it you want to tell me?”

  I am reminded of my oath to Chris as well as my promise to Tommy. But I also know I can convince John to keep the incident between Tommy and Chris “off the record,” and the two of us should be able to convince DSS as well. That will keep Mary Manning from ever knowing.

  I reach in my jacket pocket and remove the micro-cassette recorder. “Listen to this, John.” I push PLAY and set the recorder on John’s desk.

  Nothing comes from the tiny speaker. John gives me a perturbed look. I pick up the recorder and check it. It’s not running. I push the STOP and PLAY buttons repeatedly. Nothing happens. The batteries are dead. I quickly pop out the cassette and check it. It’s fully rewound meaning the recorder wasn’t working yesterday, either. It didn’t tape my interview with Chris.

  It’s impossible to describe the wave of panic that sweeps over me. I look up at John.

  “Glen, don’t try to play games. I think things will work out for the best if you just be honest and forthcoming. You said this is a mistake. Are you denying the boy’s accusation?”

  “Yes, I am denying it.”

  “You did not have sexual relations last night or at any other time with Tommy Jackson?”

  “Last night? Is that what Tommy said?”

  “Glen, I’ll ask you straight out: Did you molest Tommy Jackson?”

  I’m regaining a bit of my composure, now. Raw anger will do that for you. “Yeah, John,” I say with indignation, “I came in here last night, signed in, went down to Tommy’s room, molested him—while his roommate was in there, mind you—then came back to the front desk and signed out. I believe I even wrote ‘molestation’ down for ‘reason for visit.’” I pause long enough to let my diatribe sink in. “Let me ask you something,” I say. “Have you lost your mind?”

  I can see that my version of the scenario that John has forced on me has him thinking. This whole thing is ridiculous. Surely he can see that. Who in their right mind would come to New Horizons, sign in, and then molest one of the residents? If that is what Tommy has told them, this will go nowhere. I can’t believe DSS is giving any credence to such a preposterous accusation.

  But no wonder I was not called by the night staff. If Tommy told them that I had molested him in his room last night...well, of course they didn’t call me. They called DSS. Or the
sheriff’s office. Or both. I have a thought.

  “Is Tommy still here? Did he go to school?” I ask.

  “DSS has taken him into custody. He’s down at Children and Youth Services now.”

  “John, I need to speak with him. Five minutes with just you, me, and Tommy an we can resolve this thing. Five minutes.”

  John looks at me with a mixture of disdain and disbelief. “Glen, if you were sitting where I am and a staff member accused of this made that request, what would you say?”

  I know exactly what I would say and I say it to John. “No way.”

  “Right. Even if I wanted to, DSS would never allow it. Are you willing to go down to Children and Youth Services and answer some questions?”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell them the same thing I’m telling you: This is a mistake.” I briefly consider telling John about the incident between Chris and Tommy, but without the tape of my interview with Chris, what’s the use? The more I think about it, telling now without having that tape to back me up would do little to exonerate me. Tommy has named his abuser. And it’s not Chris. It’s me. If I say it was Chris I’ll only be accused of pointing the finger at a dead man who cannot defend himself. That would make me look even more guilty. And I swore to Chris that I would not allow his wife to find out what he had done. I will keep that promise.

  “Lucille would like you to come down at eleven-thirty,” John tells me. “You may bring counsel if you wish.”

  “Counsel? You mean a lawyer? Are they planning to arrest me?”

  “I don’t know, Glen. But if you know a good lawyer I would suggest you talk with one and find out what your options are.”

  “And what are your options, John?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I on suspension?”

  John ponders my question. “Not yet, Glen. Go talk with DSS. You know better than I how these things work. They won’t let you talk with Tommy. But you can bet they will go back to him with your answers to his accusations. If this is a mistake as you say, then he may recant. If he does, that will probably be the end of it. Until I hear further from DSS or the sheriff’s office, your status at New Horizons is unchanged.”

  I stand and offer my hand to John. I am pleased that he does not hesitate to accept it.