Children in the Morning (40 page)

The kids gawked at him when he came in. They didn’t think he was the guy who was going to teach the lesson; they thought he got in the school by mistake.”

“What did his T-shirt say?”

“It was funny. It showed this old president of the United States asleep at his desk, with a red phone ringing beside him, and the words ‘Bedtime for Bonzo!’”

“Love it. So, what else is new, angel?”

I talked with Daddy for a few more minutes, and he told me he’d see me soon and we said goodbye.

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(Monty)

On the drive home from work, I pictured Gordo as I had seen him the night of the Robertsons’ choir party, and I imagined that he was well able to keep the attention of his students in class. A good story-teller. He had recounted a story about Beau Delaney. Beau was his lawyer in a lawsuit over something, an oil leak, and I suspected there was the occasional drug charge as well. What had he said about Beau?

Beau had failed to show for a court hearing, and Gordo ended up in jail. Represented himself. Contempt of court, that was it, for making an insulting remark about the judge. Beau hadn’t failed to show up, I remembered then, but was double-booked that day and had to go out of town for a psychiatric conference. That made sense; the question of mental illness arose frequently in the world of criminal law.

This brought Corbett Reeves to mind again. I saw Corbett as a sword of Damocles hanging over Delaney’s future, specifically his future in the courtroom if we were forced to go through a new trial.

Corbett with his World War Two and Nazi fixation, his grandiose ideas of his place in the world, his attempts to intervene in the murder trial. Kyle described him as twisted, a psycho. Did Corbett have some kind of mental illness? Personality disorder? More than likely, by the sound of things. I remembered another detail from Gordo’s anecdote then: the conference was in Toronto, put on by Dr.

Brayer. Quinton Brayer, an expert in psychopaths! Were we getting into deep, murky waters here? I wondered about Corbett’s background. Even Mrs. Vickery, his great-aunt, didn’t seem to know where he had been born or where he had spent his early years. He hadn’t started out in Nova Scotia, if I remembered my conversation with her. Community Services had tracked her down. Up until then, Mrs. Vickery hadn’t even known the child existed. Did this mean he had no other family? Where had he been before the Vickerys and the Delaneys? My mind lurched then to Normie’s talk about an asylum. No, surely he was too young to have been confined to an asylum. Was the word even used anymore?

I had to rein in my imagination. There was no point trying to imagine where Corbett had been, apart from the Vickery and Delaney homes. But I did wonder whether his presence might have 260

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been a factor in Delaney’s decision to sign up for the conference in Toronto. I knew Corbett had been with the Delaneys several years ago and then again for part of last year. Springtime through fall.

When was the conference? Gordo would remember when it was, given that he wound up in jail during Beau’s absence.

When I got to the house, I looked up the Robertsons in the phone book and dialled their number. No answer. I could do some research and find out when Gordo’s costs hearing took place, but the direct approach would be quicker. I called directory assistance and got the number for the psychiatrist, Quinton Brayer. I would simply ask when the conference had taken place. To save time explaining who I was and why I was asking, I’d use Beau’s name. I made the call, and a woman answered.

“Dr. Brayer’s office. Marsha speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Marsha. This is Beau Delaney. You may recall the time I was up to see Dr. Brayer last year. I’m just wondering if you could give me the dates. I’ve forgotten and I’d like to . . .”

“Certainly, Mr. Delaney. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Just hold on for a second. I’ll grab those records.”

Records?
She was gone for a minute or so, then returned. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Delaney.”

“That’s all right.”

“Let me see. Wednesday, March 8, and then it was Fridays, March 15 and 22, April 5, 12, and 26. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No, no thanks, Marsha. That’s all I needed.”

“Well, I hope you and your family are well, Mr. Delaney. Call us again any time. Bye-bye!”

What had I done?
It wasn’t a psychiatric conference. Somebody had been seeing Brayer as a patient. Delaney? A member of his family? Corbett Reeves? I had impersonated Beau and — without intending to — I had been given confidential information that was none of my business.

†

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I thought again of the asylum in Normie’s vision. Where or what was that? I picked up the phone again, and called Debbie Schwartz. She was a clinical psychologist who helped out with clients from time to time. Her receptionist told me she was busy with a patient, but I heard from her a while later.

We exchanged a bit of small talk, then I got down to it. “I won’t trouble you with the convoluted reasoning behind my question, Debbie, but here it is: do you know where there is a psychiatric institution that has the word ‘asylum’ in its name?”

“Not that I can think of. The Nova Scotia Hospital used to be called an asylum, but not in recent times.”

“This place would have the word ‘asylum’ carved into the facade, according to my information. And the name ‘Vincent’ somewhere as well.”

“Vincent?”

“Yeah. It’s a long story.”

“Okay. Well, I can’t think of a place around here, Monty. Though I can’t speak for the other provinces. Ontario or wherever. There’s an institution in New Brunswick. Moncton? No, it’s in Saint John. I’ve never had occasion to visit, so I don’t know what it’s called. Or what the building looks like. I could make some inquiries for you.”

“No, don’t do that. Thanks anyway, Deb. I know somebody from Saint John and if he can’t give me any information, maybe I’ll call you again.”

“Sure.”

“Appreciate your help. See you.”

“Bye, Monty.”

My expert on Saint John, New Brunswick, was Monsignor Michael O’Flaherty. He had grown up there. I got into the car and headed downtown to St. Bernadette’s.

Michael was showing a group of Japanese tourists around the church when I arrived. I watched with amusement as they took turns opening the doors of the confession box, sitting in the penitents’ seat, and posing for photographs. I could see Michael trying to maintain his usual good cheer in the face of such cavalier behaviour on sacred ground. When he had shepherded them onto their bus and waved goodbye, I walked over to him.

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“Not a word out of you, young Collins. I haven’t the humour for it today! I had to shoo them off the altar, as politely as I could. So, what brings you here, Monty? ”

“Well, Mike, you may find this an odd question.”

“It couldn’t be any more odd than the questions that came my way over the last half hour. Ask away, my lad.”

“All right. There is a mental hospital in Saint John, isn’t there, Mike?”

“Indeed there is. We always used to say: ‘Go on out of that, or they’ll be sending you to Lancaster!’ It’s not Lancaster anymore. It’s all amalgamated into Saint John now. But that’s where it is.”

“Is the name Vincent connected with it?”

“No. It’s never been called that. In fact, its old name was the Provincial Lunatic Asylum! It was built in the nineteenth century.”

“They didn’t mince words in those days.”

“Funny you should say that. At the time it was established, the place was in the forefront of the new, more humane treatment of the mentally ill. It was the first institution of its kind in Canada, the first place for the mentally ill that was separate from a jail. But why are you asking about it, Monty?”

“Somebody mentioned an asylum, but it also had the word

‘Vincent’ on a sign; I’m not clear on the details.” I didn’t tell him I was repeating a reference I had heard second-hand, and that even the first-hand account was only a description of a place seen in a dream.

Or a psychic vision! The less said the better.

“Well, now, that might be the Saint Vincent’s Orphan Asylum.”

Orphan asylum! “What’s that, Mike?”

“The infants’ home in Saint John. The orphanage.”

I realized I was staring at him. Normie had seen a baby. And a little child. Now I was hearing about an orphanage.

“What does the place look like, do you know?”

“I know it well. It’s right around the corner from the cathedral. I lived not far from it myself. The infants’ home is a red-brick building, nineteenth century, with Gothic windows and a couple of holy crosses at the top.”

That was it. That was the place Normie had described, although she hadn’t mentioned the crosses.

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“The sisters are still there, although it’s not an orphanage anymore. They used to run a school as well.”

“Sisters?”

Monsignor O’Flaherty looked at me as if he thought I’d gone a little simple. “The Sisters of Charity, Monty. They have a convent there, and they used to run the orphanage and the school.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry, Mike, my mind was off on a bit of a tangent.”

“Sure we all have moments like that. Any particular reason you’re asking, or have you just taken a sudden interest in my old hometown?”

“There’s a reason, but if I tried to explain . . .”

“No need, Monty. But if you ever decide to visit the place, let me know. I’d love to have company on a trip back home.”

“You never know, Mike. If it comes to that, I’ll give you a call.”

†

I didn’t play music or read or take a walk when I got home. The Delaney case was the only thing on my mind, so I gave in to that, and put
Righteous Defender
in the vcr. I had watched it before the trial, but it warranted another look. The film opened with a shot of Delaney — Jack Hartt playing Delaney — standing in a courtroom with a flock of other lawyers in their black robes and white throat tabs. The scene switched to the judge saying: “You are free to go.” We then saw Delaney’s client shake his hand and thank Delaney effu-sively for his hard work and the perfect result. You know you’re in the world of fiction when the client takes the time to thank you. Well, maybe there’s something about the drama of a Supreme Court jury trial that induces elaborate protocol even in the clients; looking back on some of my jury trials, I believed I had occasionally been the recipient of a proffered hand and a word of thanks. That never seemed to happen in the lower courts. I recalled one guy I had for trial on a busy day in the ornate nineteenth-century provincial courthouse on Spring Garden Road. By the time our matter was called at eleven thirty, the Crown’s main witness had still not shown up. I managed to stave off the Crown’s request for an adjournment, 264

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prompting the prosecutor to withdraw the charges. I gave my client the good news, in case he hadn’t caught on. The trial was not going ahead; he was no longer facing criminal charges; he was free to go.

His reaction? “I wasted my whole fucking morning.”

But things were going a little better for Delaney on the screen. He returned to his office and took time to gaze at a portrait of his parents on his desk. This led to a flashback to his childhood, shown in black and white. We saw a little boy of about seven, dressed in a checked shirt and a blazer, coming home from school carrying a bookbag. His fair hair was brushed over to the side. The camera followed him as he ditched his schoolbag in the driveway to his house, ran to the back, and climbed up onto a swing. He pumped his legs furiously until he gained the desired height, then sailed off the swing and into a pile of raked leaves. He got up, with leaves sticking to his clothes and hair, and did the same thing again. At that point, his mother came out the back door, called Beau’s name, ran over and scooped him up for a big hug. Then we heard a car horn, and saw a big black sedan pull up in the driveway. Dad emerged, wearing a top-coat and fedora. He held his arms out and the young Beau flung himself into them and was hoisted high into the air. The scene switched back to a smiling Beau in his law office.

We went from there to the tiny rural community of Blockhouse in Lunenburg County. We saw the robbery at Gary’s General Store.

The two terrified young store clerks were shot. Seventeen-year-old Scott Hubley lay dead on the floor. Cathy Tompkins, sixteen, lay grievously wounded, her face a portrait of shock and horror. Then it was Scott’s funeral, and his burial, with Cathy at the gravesite in her wheelchair, her hair shaved off and her face disfigured. Beau gave his client, Adam Gower, a brilliant defence, and Adam walked away from the courthouse, cocky and defiant.

Jack Hartt, as Beau, was shown receiving death threats over the phone and by mail. Then we saw Gower back in Blockhouse, strut-ting by Gary’s store and peering inside. Next thing we saw was Gower being beaten to a pulp somewhere out in the country. Then, a midnight knock on the door at the residence of Cathy Tompkins’s brother Robby, and the police bundled him into their cruiser, reading him his rights as they booked him for murder.

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