The River King (19 page)

“Who did you think I was? A scary monster?” Carlin escaped from his grasp. “Boo,” she cried.

“I'm serious. Two guys thought you were a bear. It's a good thing they didn't have guns.”

Carlin hooted. “What brave hunters!”

“Don't laugh. There used to be bears in Haddan. When my grandfather was at school here, one came crashing into the dining hall. Grandpop swears it ate fifty-two apple pies and six gallons of vanilla ice cream before it was shot. There's still some blood on the floor where the salad bar is now.”

“None of that is true.” Carlin couldn't help but smile, charmed out of her misgivings about the gathering in the woods.

“Okay. Maybe not the salad bar part,” Harry admitted. He'd ringed his arms around her, pulling her back to him. “Now, you tell the truth. What are you thinking, running around in the dark?”

You and your boys are out here, too.”

“We're having a house meeting.”

“Right, and you're all the way out here because you're going to cut off puppy dogs' tails and eat snails or whatever it is you do.”

“Actually, we're here to drink the case of beer Robbie managed to snag. I have to swear you to secrecy on this, you understand.”

Carlin held a finger to her lips, an assurance that she never would tell. They laughed then at all the rules they had broken and how many consecutive suspensions could be levied against them. They had spent several nights in the boathouse, and such romantic evenings, although fairly commonplace among students, would land them in serious trouble if the houseparents ever found out.

Harry insisted on walking Carlin back to school. Although it was after midnight by the time they reached the campus, they paused to kiss in the shadows of the headmaster's statue, a bit of bad behavior they liked to engage in whenever they passed it by.

“Dr. Howe would be shocked if he could see us.” Carlin reached over to pat the statue's foot, an act that some people said brought good fortune in matters of love.

“Dr. Howe shocked? You've obviously never heard the guy's history. He'd likely try to score himself and I'd have to fight him off.” Harry kissed Carlin even more deeply. “I'd have to break his neck.”

The leaves of the beech trees rattled like paper and the scent of the river was powerful, a rich mixture of wild celery and duckweed. When Harry kissed her, Carlin felt as though she herself were drowning, but when he stopped, she found herself thinking of Gus at the bottom of the river; she imagined how cold it must have been, there among the reeds, how the trout must have created currents as they rushed by on the way toward deeper water.

As if he knew, Harry's expression turned sour. He ran a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was annoyed but trying his best to keep his emotions in check. “Is that Gus's coat you're wearing?”

They were standing on the hourglass path that Annie Howe had designed with lovers in mind, but now they no longer embraced. Red spots had appeared on Carlin's cheeks. She could feel the cold thing inside her chest that had formed when Gus died; it rattled and shook to remind her of the part she'd played in that loss.

“Is there a problem?” Carlin asked.

She had stepped away from him, and the chill she felt had sifted into her tone. Usually, the girls Harry went out with were so grateful to be with him they didn't talk back, and so Carlin's attitude was unexpected.

“Look, you really can't go around wearing Gus Pierce's coat.” He spoke to her as he would to a child, tenderly, but with a degree of stern righteousness.

“Are you telling me what I can and cannot do?” She was especially beautiful, pale and colder than the night. Harry was more drawn to her than ever, precisely because she wasn't giving in to him.

“For one thing, the damned coat is wet,” he told her. “Look for yourself.”

Beads of water had formed on the heavy, black fabric and Harry's jacket had grown damp simply from holding her near. No matter; Carlin already held a fierce attachment to the coat and Harry could tell she wasn't about to back down. He also knew that the more sincere a fellow sounded in his apologies, the bigger the payoff.

“Look, I'm sorry. I have no right to tell you what to do.”

Carlin's green eyes were still cloudy, impossible to read.

“I mean it,” Harry went on. “I'm an idiot and I don't blame you for being pissed off. You'd be within your rights if you wanted to sue me for stupidity.”

Carlin could feel the cold thing inside her beginning to dissolve. They embraced once again, kissing until their lips were bruised and deliciously hot. Carlin wondered if perhaps they would wind up in the boathouse again, but Harry broke their embrace.

“I'd better go back and check on my boys. I wouldn't want anyone to get suspended tonight. They're lost without me, you know.”

Carlin watched Harry return the way they'd come, pausing to turn and grin before he stepped back into the woods. Harry had been right about one thing, the coat was sopping. A puddle had formed at Carlin's feet, there on the concrete path. The water that had collected was silvery, as if made out of mercury or tears. Something was moving within the puddle, and when Carlin bent down she was shocked to discover a pretty little minnow, the sort often found along the banks of the Haddan. When she reached for it, the fish flipped back and forth in the palm of her hand, cool as rain, blue as heaven, waiting to be saved. She really had no choice but to run all the way to the river, and even then, she had the sense that it was probably too late. She could race into the shallows wearing her good shoes, ignoring the mud and pickerel-weed clinging to her dress, but the minnow might already be too far gone. One small silver fish brought her to tears as she stood there, her best clothes ruined, the water rushing around her. Try as she might, there would always be those it was possible to rescue and those whose destiny it was to sink like a stone.

INDIAN SUMMER CAME TO HADDAN in the middle of the night when no one was watching, when people were safely asleep in their beds. Before dawn mist rose in the meadows as the soft, languid air drifted over fields and riverbanks. The sudden heat, so unexpected and so welcome at this time of year, caused people to rise from their beds and throw open their windows and doors. Some residents went into their own backyards sometime after midnight; they brought out pillows and blankets and slept beneath the stars, as disoriented as they were delighted by the sudden change in weather. By morning, the temperature had climbed past eighty, and those few remaining crickets out in the fields called hopefully, even though the grass was brown as sticks and there were no longer any leaves on the trees.

It was a gorgeous Saturday and time stretched out as it did on summer days. Unexpected weather often caused people to let down their defenses, and this was what had happened to Betsy Chase, who on this morning felt as though she were suddenly waking from a long, confusing dream. As she passed the old rambling roses on campus, some of which were still blooming on this mild November day, she thought of Abel Grey and the way he had looked at her. She thought about him even though she knew she shouldn't. She knew where such entanglements led. Love at first sight, perhaps; trouble, certainly. Betsy preferred the more sensible affinity she felt for Eric; she was not the kind of woman who fell hard and she planned to keep it that way. In her opinion, love that struck suddenly was too akin to tumbling down a well. She would surely hit her head if she took such a fall; she would regret it dearly.

And yet, try as she might, Betsy couldn't shake the attraction. It was as though he were still staring at her, even now, as if he had seen right through her. She tried to think of ordinary things, telephone numbers, for instance, and grocery lists. She recited the names of the girls at St. Anne's, a litany she always found difficult to recall, always confusing well-behaved Amy Elliot with uncooperative Maureen Brown, mixing up Ivy Cooper, who wept every time her grade fell below an A minus, with Christine Percy, who had yet to open a text. None of these tactics did the least bit of good. Try as she might, desire wasn't so easy to dodge, not on a day like this, when November was so very much like June anything seemed possible, even a notion as foolhardy as true love.

Work would help get rid of idle thoughts. It always did the trick, managing to set Betsy back on track. Since her arrival at Haddan, she had been so busy with students that she'd had little time for her own photographs. The entire burden of St. Anne's rested with Betsy, since Helen Davis was hopeless in that regard, and Betsy was especially worried about Carlin Leander, who had been closest to the dead boy. Although there was some debate about whether or not Gus's death had been caused by his own hand, despair could be contagious; suicide had been known to spread through groups. There were always individuals who, already looking for a way out, came to believe they had found a door leading through the darkness. When one person walked through, the gate swung open, beckoning others to follow. This was the reason Betsy made certain to check on Carlin, for she'd heard the girl was refusing to eat and that she was skipping classes, letting her grades fall dangerously low. Often, Betsy found Carlin's bed empty at curfew, and although this was against Haddan rules, Betsy never reported these transgressions. She was well aware of the ways in which grief could affect those left behind. Would it be so surprising if one of the girls in Betsy's care took it into her head to eat a bottle of aspirin, or slit her wrists, or climb onto her window ledge? Would Betsy then be expected to follow along after such a student, inching her way along the roof, grabbing for any girl who might imagine she could fly away from her sorrows and all her earthly cares?

In all honesty, Betsy herself had had such notions after her parents' deaths. She'd been sent to live with friends of the family in Boston, and one evening, at dusk, she'd climbed out to the roof as storm clouds were gathering. Lightning had been predicted and residents were warned to stay inside, but there Betsy was, without benefit of either coat or shoes, arms raised to the sky. The rain was torrential, with winds so fierce that shingles were ripped from the rooftops, and before long gutters were overflowing. When lightning did strike, only blocks away, cleaving in two an old magnolia tree on Commonwealth Avenue that had always been appreciated for its huge, saucerlike flowers, Betsy had crawled back through the window. By then she was drenched and her heart was pounding. What had she wanted out there in the storm? To join her parents? To anesthetize her pain? To feel, for a few brief instants, the power of charting her own fate? And yet, in spite of how weary she was of this world, the very first sheet of lightning had sent her scrambling back to the safety of her room, so quick and so frantic she broke two fingers in the process, a sure sign of her attachment to the glorious world of the living.

Once again, on this oddly warm day, Betsy experienced the same charge she'd felt during that long-ago storm, as if she had not been completely alive and was slowly being shocked back, atom by atom. She unlocked the photo lab, glad to be rid of the burden of her girls if only for a few hours, in need of time alone. She had only one roll of film to develop, the one she'd taken in Gus Pierce's room, and even if the prints had not been commissioned by Abel Grey, she would have done her best. Betsy never rushed in the darkroom, knowing full well that images always profited when given extra care. Breath gave life to all that was human, but light was the force that animated a photograph. Betsy particularly wanted to illuminate this set of prints; she wanted each one to burn in Abel Grey's hand, the way his stare had burned through her. But somewhere along the developing process, something went wrong. At first Betsy thought her vision was failing; surely, it was only a matter of time until she saw straight. But soon enough she understood that her eyesight wasn't the problem. Betsy's vision was still twenty-twenty, just as it always had been, her one true gift, and perhaps this was the reason she'd always had the ability to see what others ignored. All the same, Betsy had never seen anything like this before. She remained in the photo lab for quite some time, but time wouldn't change anything. She could wait for hours or for days, but the same image would remain. There, seated on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap, was a boy in a black coat, his wet hair streaming with water, his skin so pale it was possible to see through him, into thin air.

* * *

ABEL GREY, A MAN WHO USUALLY SLEPT LIKE a rock, unmovable until dawn, could not get to sleep when the weather changed. He felt as though he'd been set afire, and when at last he fell into an uneasy slumber, he dreamed of the river, as if perhaps its waters could cool him while he slept. His house was closer to the train tracks than it was to the Haddan, and the sound of the 5:45 A.M. to Boston often filtered through his dreams, but it was the river he heard on this night, when the weather was so warm mayflies swarmed the banks, although such insects were not usually seen until the mild, green days of spring.

In his dream, Abe was in a canoe with his grandfather, and all around them the water was silver. When Abe looked down, he saw his own image, but his face was blue, the shade it might have been had he drowned. His grandfather set aside his fly rod and stood; the canoe rocked from side to side, but that didn't bother Wright Grey. He was an old man, but he was tall and straight and he had all his strength.

Here's the way to do it
, he told Abe in the dream.
Jump in headfirst.

Wright threw a rock as far as he could and the water before them shattered. Now it was clear that this silver stuff wasn't water at all, but a mirrorlike substance that stretched on and on. Wherever a man might look, he was bound to see himself, there among the lilies and the reeds. When Abe woke, he had a serious headache. He wasn't a man accustomed to dreams; he was too levelheaded and suspicious in nature to put much stock in wispy illusions or look for meaning where there was none. But today, his, grandfather's resonant voice stayed with him, as if they'd recently been speaking and had been interrupted in midconversation. Abe went into the kitchen, started some coffee, and gulped down three Tylenol. It was early and the sky was perfectly blue. The big tomcat who had adopted Abe was pacing back and forth, demanding breakfast. All in all, an extraordinary day, a morning when other men might turn to thinking about fishing or love, rather than the vagaries of an unexplained death.