Chapter 5
5
At five minutes to nine, I pull into the driveway of Coram House. Once again, I’d stayed up too late, first searching online databases for Tommy, which turned out to be hopeless, and then trying to put together an updated contact list for everyone who gave a deposition back in the eighties, which meant hours scouring the internet for addresses and phone numbers, trying to match Facebook profiles to names and locations. Somehow when I looked up, the bottle of wine was empty and the clock said three a.m.
I drive past the construction site, already buzzing with yellow bulldozers, and bump along the dirt until it ends abruptly at a stone wall, where Stedsan stands beside a silver sedan. I smile, wave. Of course he drives a Mercedes.
“Quite the morning,” he says when I get out. He gestures toward the expanse of water spread out below us. Unlike downtown, where the bay is frozen solid, the open water on this side of Rock Point feels alive. Waves move in every direction, crashing together in an explosion of white foam.
“The rectory is this way,” Stedsan says, raising his voice to be heard above the wind.
He leads us through a gap in the stone wall. Overgrown cedars lean over the path, their branches clutching at my jacket. Past the cedar tunnel, a cottage emerges like something out of a fairy tale—all climbing ivy and puffs of smoke from the chimney. The cemetery comes right up to the path, but most of the gravestones here are moss-covered, atmospheric rather than creepy. I can see the spire of the church rising behind the house, so we can’t be far from the street, but it feels worlds away.
Stedsan lifts his hand to the doorknob, then pauses. “Father Aubry has a nervous disposition. I would go easy on him.”
I raise my eyebrows, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“This isn’t my first interview. I know how to read a room.”
Stedsan widens his eyes and holds up his hands. Calm down. He pushes open the door without knocking. “Ladies first.”
I step into a dimly lit entry. The white plaster walls are bare above dark wood paneling, except for a large wooden crucifix. A stained-glass window scatters spots of blue-and-green light on the wooden floor. Stedsan announces us.
“Hello! Father Aubry?”
A door slams upstairs. A breeze rustles the spiderwebs that soften the corners of the ceiling.
A moment later, black orthopedic sneakers appear on the stairs beneath a swish of black fabric. The rest of Father Aubry comes into view piece by piece as he descends: torso, clasped hands, and finally a narrow face dominated by a pair of glasses. He looks shrunken inside the long black cassock, as if he borrowed it from someone much larger.
“Alan,” Father Aubry says, holding out his hand. “And you must be Mrs. Kelley. So good of you to come.”
I’ve never been Mrs. anyone, but I don’t correct him.
“Thank you for having us, Father Aubry.”
He smiles, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine. It’s like they got stuck on my chin. “Rosa has made us some tea upstairs in the library, if you’d like…” He trails off.
“That would be lovely,” Stedsan says, his voice growing louder and heartier, as if Father Aubry is part deaf instead of just awkward.
As we follow Father Aubry up the creaking stairs, I wonder how old he is. I’d guess midfifties. He carries himself tentatively, like someone much older, but his skin doesn’t have the saggy look of true old age. I do a quick calculation. He might have been here during the case, but he would have been a teenager when Coram House was still operating as an orphanage.
Upstairs, the long hallway is lined with framed photographs, starting with an image of the pope in his white bedsheet robes. Then back in time to a line of nuns ladling out soup, their wimples jostling for space with oversized eighties-style glasses. All the way back to a sepia-tinted photo of children clustered around a font, apparently waiting to be baptized en masse. The girls with their wide eyes and ill-fitting white dresses look like child brides.
“Here we are,” Father Aubry says, opening the door so we can step into his study. From a distance, the room looks cozy—a fireplace, an oversize desk, a pair of leather armchairs—but up close everything is shabby. The bubbling paint on the ceiling that suggests a leaky roof. The deep tarnish on the candlesticks. The spring poking out of the chair.
“I’d offer to take your jackets, but it’s so drafty in here you’ll probably be happier keeping them,” Father Aubry says with an attempt at a smile. “Please, sit.”
We take our places in two wooden chairs before the desk while he pours tea. The room fills with the smell of something herbal and overly sweet. The silence stretches and I wait to see who will fill it first. My teacup has a chipped edge that feels sharp enough to cut flesh.
Father Aubry clears his throat. “So you’re writing a book about Coram House—all the unfortunate things that happened there. I, ah, well, I know the church must seem the villain to you now, but I just hope you won’t paint us all with the same brush. There are many of those whose deepest desire was to be of service—to God and those children. The story is not unusual, I think…”
He trails off, as if he’s not sure where to go now that he’s given his talking points. Karen Lafayette’s words flash in my head. She sort of bounced when she hit the ground.
Father Aubry clears his throat again. His chair creaks like it might collapse. “Alan here tells me that you’re a very talented writer.”
I paste a smile on my face.
Father Aubry asks a few more questions about how I became a writer, where I grew up, how I like it here. With every answer, he relaxes, leaning back in his chair, nodding, probably thinking to himself that maybe we won’t have to touch on any unpleasantness after all.
Sarah Dale stands on the hill, lemonade dripping down her legs from the shattered pitcher. But Tommy, he never came back up.
“Father Aubry,” I say, interrupting a question he’s asking about my writing process. “I’ll be reviewing all the materials related to the case and the history of Coram House. Everything Mr. Stedsan has shared, documents from law enforcement, and any additional historical documents I can find. I’ll also be speaking to members of the community.”
He sits up straighter, clears his throat. “Yes, of course. Yes.”
“I know this kind of reckoning can be very uncomfortable, so I want to assure you I’ll do my best to be respectful.”
It’s half true. I plan to be very respectful of my interview subjects. But I can’t say I care about the church. From the corner of my eye, I see Stedsan give a tiny nod. Good job, kid. I ignore him.
“Anyhow,” I go on, warming up to the finale, “I want to assure you that I have no interest in sensationalizing anything.”
The story doesn’t need my help. There. Olive branch extended.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Father Aubry beams. “Well, I expected that Alan knew what he was doing when he hired you. So I was never worried, never, but it’s always nice to hear it from the source—as it is. The church is reckoning with its own history, you know, so I want to be helpful however I can.”
The smile curdles on my face, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“What I’m really hoping for is any additional records or photos you might have, especially from the fifties on.”
Father Aubry’s face falls. “There was a fire at the House years ago. Faulty wiring. Most of those records were destroyed.”
Disappointment is stones in my pocket, a physical weight.
“I’m so sorry.” Father Aubry wrings his hands like he set the fire himself and is so very sorry about it.
I force myself to shrug. These things happen . “Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about the children who died while under your care?”
He makes a choking sound. “I— My care?”
“The church’s care, I mean, of course.”
He stares at me and then back to Stedsan, who’s gone very still beside me.
“Much of the sexual and daily abuse is well documented,” I continue, parroting Stedsan’s words, “but I’m trying to get a better grasp on the more extreme cases. Specifically, a few incidents involving Sister Cecile. You may remember the ones I’m referring to.”
At her name, Father Aubry stiffens. His eyes go to the window, as if looking for an exit. All right, let me jog your memory.
“There was an incident involving a boy named Tommy. He drowned while under the care of Sister Cecile. And another. A girl who was pushed out the window, again by Sister Cecile.”
“Nothing was ever proven,” he mumbles. But at the look on my face, he raises his hands. “Not nothing,” he says quickly, “I’m not denying certain facts that came to light. I just mean about the incident you’re referring to. The boy—”
“Tommy,” I say. “His name was Tommy.”
But he goes on as if he didn’t hear me. “And the other one. The girl and the window. Really—that one was very far-fetched. I mean, you know.”
He’s babbling now. I’d hoped pressure might uncover something useful, but this is going nowhere. A gale of wind batters the little house, rattling the windows and sending a cold draft of air through the room.
“Do you have more complete records of the residents?” I ask. “So far, I haven’t been able to uncover Tommy’s last name.”
He shakes his head. “The fire.”
I notice something yellow and crusty stuck to the front of his cassock. Dried egg, maybe. He waits for my next question, but my energy is gone. All week I’ve been preparing for this meeting and it’s clearly a complete waste of time.
“I want to go inside Coram House.” I don’t plan to say it, it just comes out.
Father Aubry blinks at me. “It’s an active construction site now. I, well, I’m not sure it’s safe and I can’t— I mean, it’s not my–”
“Don’t worry,” Stedsan cuts in. “I’ve already spoken to Bill Campbell. We’re headed there now.”
I turn to him in surprise. This is the first I’m hearing about it.
“I, well, I see.” Father Aubry looks alarmed. “And he was… all right with it?”
Stedsan smiles. “Of course. In the name of civic duty, et cetera.”
“I… Yes, of course.” Father Aubry laughs. “Very good of him. Well, then, it appears you’re all set.”
“It appears so,” I say, staring at Stedsan, but he doesn’t look at me.
As we head back downstairs, I wonder if Stedsan is purposefully trying to keep me off-balance. It seems ridiculous, but he had plenty of opportunity to let me know we were meeting with the developer right after this. I don’t know what his angle is, but I don’t really care. I don’t even care that Father Aubry was a waste of time. Today, I’m going inside Coram House.
Outside, the wind skitters a paper cup down the path and into my pants. Stedsan pauses to pull on his gloves.
“Well, that wasn’t exactly what we agreed.”
“What do you mean?” I wipe at a smear of mud on my pant leg, which makes it worse.
Stedsan angles his head toward the stone cottage. I assume toward Father Aubry’s nervous disposition.
I shrug. “I thought it was more of a suggestion. And when exactly were you going to tell me about getting access to Coram House?”
He ignores my clear irritation. “I just heard from Bill this morning.” He looks at his watch. “Come on, he said he’d be in the office by ten.”
We walk down the dirt track. But I’m quietly stewing. Stedsan could have let me know about the meeting. Instead, he chose to tell me at the last minute in front of Father Aubry. And Monday, the way he ordered me to stop asking questions about Tommy. He’s the one who brought me here to write this book, so why do I already feel like he’s in my way?
A gust of wind roars around the north side of Coram House, as if it had been lying in wait. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. The extent of the construction isn’t visible from the road, but back here it’s a different story. The new wing extends like a strange growth, now nearly the size of its host. Slick walls of red corrugated metal and giant sheets of glass take advantage of what must be sweeping views of the lake. The whole thing is sleek and modern, an odd contrast with the solid brick and stone of the old building. But I guess that’s the point. A distraction or a fresh start, depending on who you ask.
“Careful.”
Stedsan lays a hand on my arm. To our left is a pit filled with frozen water. The foundation for something new.
“Who’s Bill Campbell?” I ask. “The name is familiar.”
Stedsan raises his eyebrows. “I thought you did your homework,” he teases. “I’m sure I mentioned him. He’s the developer and a key investor in the project.”
He gestures to a pickup truck parked nearby, where the words CAMPBELL & SONS are stenciled on the side next to a logo of a hammer and shovel crossed in a vaguely Soviet style.
“He also lived in Coram House as a child.”
Of course. I’d read Bill Campbell’s deposition. He’d been one of the people to throw doubt on Sarah Dale. And now here he was, developing Coram House into condominiums. For a second, I’m too stunned to speak.
“Not for very long,” Stedsan continues. “A few months, if I’m remembering right. His mother had a drug problem, but she got clean. A happy ending.”
“And then what?” I ask. “He just bought up Coram House to develop it? That didn’t bother anyone?”
Stedsan shrugs. “If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else.”
He’s ignoring the spirit of my question, but he had talked about Bill Campbell like they were friends the other day, so I decide to tread carefully for now.
We arrive at a long white trailer. A generator hums in the background. Stedsan knocks and a gravelly voice tells us to come in.
The small room is crowded with a filing cabinet and desk piled high with papers and an assortment of pens and coffee mugs. The air is damp and stale, like walking into a cloud of someone else’s breath. The man sitting behind the desk has white hair buzzed tight against his scalp and a deeply lined face. He looks far too old to be working construction, but the orange vest and wiry forearms suggest otherwise. The man doesn’t make any kind of greeting, just goes on reading his newspaper.
“Morning,” Stedsan says, his voice flat. That one word is enough to tell me he doesn’t like this man at all.
The other man lowers the paper, and widens his eyes in feigned surprise. “Why, it’s Mr. Alan Stedsan.”
He whistles and leans back in his chair. Then his eyes flick to me, running up and down my body in a way that makes me glad I’m still wearing my parka.
“Bill said you might be coming by,” the man rasps. A smoker’s voice. “This your writer?”
He says it like I’m a pet.
Stedsan turns. “Alex Kelley. This is Fred Rooney.”
The name goes off like an explosion. Sister Cecile. Tommy. Fred Rooney. I try to keep my expression neutral, but Rooney must see something because an unpleasant smile spreads across his face. “Look at that,” he says. “I’m famous too.”
Anger roils my stomach. How many more former children of Coram House am I going to run into before Stedsan decides to give me a heads-up? It’s too early in the morning to be bungling everything this badly.
“Well,” Stedsan says, “now that everyone’s acquainted, perhaps we could—”
“Not so fast.” Rooney wags a finger back and forth. Tick-tock. “Bill said to wait here—wants to take you in himself. Waste of time, if you ask me. But he’s the boss.”
Just then, the door opens. A man rushes into the office, icy air clinging to his clothes.
“Bill Campbell,” he says, pulling off his gloves. “You must be Alex. Sorry to keep you waiting. Alan—nice to see you again.”
Droplets of water cling to his hair, which is pure white and leonine. I’d guess he’s in his midsixties, but looks like the kind of person who still goes skiing every weekend.
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries. I thank him for taking the time to play tour guide. “Of course,” he says. “Happy to.” But his smile looks like someone trying to brave the jab of a needle.
“All right. I’ll be off, then,” Stedsan says.
I turn to him in surprise. “You’re not coming?”
“I have a meeting back at the office. Just wanted to make the introductions. No one knows this place better than Bill. You’re in good hands.”
Stedsan claps Bill on the shoulder. Despite my annoyance at Stedsan, I’m not sure I want him to leave.
“Well, shall we?” Bill says, ushering me toward the door. Then he turns back to Rooney, as if he just remembered something. “Fred, those lines still need checking along the east wall.”
“Sure do,” Rooney says without looking up.
Bill waits. The silence stretches. “Right,” Bill says, making a production of pulling on his gloves. He turns away, hand on the doorknob, when Rooney speaks again.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, boss?”
“What are you talking about?” Bill asks, flustered.
Rooney raps his knuckles on a hard hat sitting on the desk.
“Right,” Bill says. “Yes, of course.”
He grabs two yellow hard hats from a row of hooks by the door. He holds one out to me, expression apologetic. “We haven’t started on the old building yet, but technically it’s all a construction site.”
“Compliance is very important,” Rooney says.
“Yes, thank you, Fred,” Bill replies acidly. He turns back to me, his voice now schoolteacher bright. “Ready?”
“Lead the way,” I say, wondering what the hell that whole exchange was about.
Bill leads me to the front of Coram House. Both the wind and the sounds of machinery have stopped, leaving us in silence. The doors loom larger up close—ten feet of heavy, polished oak. So heavy I doubt a child could open them, even without the metal chain currently wound through the door handles. Once you went in, someone would have to let you out.
“Got a sign painter up from Boston,” Bill says.
At first, I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then I see the words SUNRISE HOUSE painted in gold script above the door. I murmur something I hope he’ll take for enthusiasm.
Bill inserts a key into the padlock and the chain slithers onto the steps. He pushes open the door and is immediately swallowed by the gloom. As I follow, I have the sensation that I’m not entering a building at all, but slipping into a dark pool. I take a deep breath and plunge inside.